


The Mating Habits of the Modern Falcon: A Field Guide

by chicklette



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Sam Wilson, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bottom Sam Wilson, Boys In Love, Enemies to Lovers, Frenemies Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson, Fuckbuddies, Idiots in Love, Im really really sorry about that, M/M, Mention of Suicide;, Mentions of past drug use, Musician Bucky Barnes, POV Sam Wilson, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pining, Roommate Steve, Sam Wilson Feels, Sam Wilson Needs a Hug, Sam is figuring his shit out okay?, Social Worker Sam, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Switching, This is not an ot3, Top Bucky Barnes, Top Sam Wilson, War Veteran Sam Wilson, WinterFalcon - Freeform, idk how that happened, it's easier to fuck than feel, like really sorry, mentions of past drug addiction, mentions of stony, sex instead of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-12-16 22:57:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 48,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11838753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicklette/pseuds/chicklette
Summary: Samuel Wilson has his shit together.Not in this fic though.  In this fic, Sam has a roommate (Steve), a fuck-buddy (Bucky), a full class load (and some student loans), an internship at the VA, a tense relationship with his sister, and no idea what he's doing.But he's working on it.





	1. Prologue/Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With massive, massive thanks to buffyscribbles. You are the alpha and the beta and a friend all in one. This seriously would not be here if not for you. I appreciate you more than words can express. Thank you, thank you! <3 
> 
> Also, huge thanks to Ty, for the beta read and the wonderful advice. Old fandom friends are sometimes the best fandom friends. <3
> 
> As always, this fic is fully drafted and about 80% complete and will clock in around 35-40k words. I will be posting at least weekly, but will post more often as schedule/final editing allows. I hope you enjoy it - I have loved writing this.

_"Peregrine falcons have adapted to living in many cities and make use of tall buildings that provide suitable ledges for nesting and depend on the large populations of pigeons and starlings in cities for food. They dive and catch their prey in mid-air. Peregrines have few natural predators."_ \- Basic Facts about Peregrine Falcons, Defenders.org

 

**Prologue**

 

Looking back, Sam knows it couldn’t have ended any other way.  Everything had to play out just the way it did – from that first drunk, angry kiss to this last one: soft, bitter, and sweet on his lips.

“Be good,” Sam says.

Bucky switches the guitar he’s holding from one hand to the other and shrugs.  “Always am.”  He gives Sam that cocky, crooked grin and Sam finds himself grinning back.

“Yeah, okay.  You keep telling yourself that.”

The words are routine, rote from when they were lovers.  It stings, because even as his mouth forms the words, he knows he’ll never say them again, knows the next time he sees Bucky, they’ll be half-strangers, half somebody-I-used-to-knows to each other.

It’s nothing – nothing – he ever wanted.  But looking back?  Yeah, Sam knows it couldn’t have ended any other way.

 

 

**Chapter 1**

 

 

“Bucky!”  Steve’s voice is a shout over the music, the New Year’s Eve party already going strong at eight in the evening.  But hell, Sam and Steve had started out getting day drunk by one in the afternoon.  They’d had light naps at three (“’s’not a nap,” Steve slurred.  “It’s a power up.”).  Then Scott showed up at five with a pair of kegs, and the boys began again in earnest.

Wrapping Bucky up in his arms, Steve hugs him hard enough to lift him off his feet, before turning them around and kicking the door shut behind them.  Their apartment is decent sized, spacious enough that they can host 15-20 people without feeling overcrowded, but cozy when it’s just the two of them.  Steve’s mother bought it with the insurance money when Steve’s father was killed in action, and Steve inherited it when she passed.  Sam assumed there was still a mortgage on the place, but despite being roommates for four years now, they never really talked about money.

“You made it!”  Steve yells, and because a boozy Steve is an effusive Steve, the entire apartment hears his glee.  Bucky leans up and says something into Steve’s ear, and Steve smiles and claps a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, looking fond and so happy.

Sam kind of hates Bucky for that, for the times that Bucky hasn’t shown up, the times that he’s let Steve down and Sam’s had to watch Steve’s shoulders slump before he put up a too-bright smile to match his look of patient understanding.

Truth be told, Sam kind of hates Bucky for a lot of things:  The way he breezes in and out of Steve’s life.  The way he leaves messes that he never cleans up.  The way his ass looks in the dark blue jeans he’s wearing and how his smile lights up his whole damn face.  When they first met, Sam found Bucky gorgeous.  He has dark brown hair and light blue eyes, and the curve of his mouth makes Sam think things that made him blush.  

No matter how good he looks now, Sam can’t help but see Bucky the way he used to be - eyes bloodshot, body gaunt, sick hollows beneath his cheekbones, and perpetual bruising beneath his eyes.  Sam knows he’s come a long way since then, but he’s still angry about the 3 am phone calls, the hard, plastic emergency room chairs, and the furrow of anxiety that Steve carried between his eyes for months.

Bucky’d picked up a pill habit around the time that Sam had moved in with Steve.  He’d had a front row seat for Bucky’s deterioration – and to seeing the lengths that Steve will go to for someone he calls a friend.  Everything came to a head when Steve got a pre-dawn phone call from Bucky, and he and Sam tracked him down through his cell phone to a flop house in a shady part of town.  Bucky was incoherent, barely conscious and bleeding from a wound in his left arm that would land him months of rehab in order to regain his fine motor skills in his left hand.

He’d been clean and sober since that day, and Sam wanted to be proud of him, but the two of them had never gotten past the pigtail-pulling stage of their relationship.  It didn’t help that Sam had been a little bit – and sometimes a whole lot – in love with Steve for most of their friendship.

It was okay; Sam couldn’t fall in love with someone he didn’t admire, and there was just so much to admire about Steve.  They’d met as the lone old-as-fuck freshmen in their Intro to Philosophy class, both of them speaking passionately about a woman’s right to choose in the context of the cycle of abuse and the taboos around adoption.  The two struck up an easy friendship after that, and matched their schedules to have classes together as often as possible.

When Sam turned a corner to get to class one day and found Steve squaring off against a kid who was getting pushy with a girl, Sam lost a little bit more of his heart.  Then Steve explained to Sam one night over pizza, beer and their Issues in American Politics text, that he’d started school so late because he’d been caring for his mother, who’d passed from a protracted illness, Sam felt himself tumble all the way over into love.

Steve’s straight, but hadn’t given Sam’s bisexuality a second thought, and Sam resigned himself to yet another unrequited love affair.  It was okay.  He knew the terrain.  Things never got awkward between the two of them, and Sam never let it stop him from dating, from trying to fall for someone else.  To be honest, there was probably a healthy dose of jealousy tangled up in his feelings about Bucky.  He had a piece of Steve that Sam could never touch, and it was easier for Sam to fall into anger over how Bucky treated Steve.

Sam knows that Bucky paid a price for his choices, but sometimes Sam’s not sure he’s paid enough.  He knows it’s not his place to judge, but he finds himself doing it anyway.  Like right now, watching Steve watch Bucky, and the way Steve’s whole face lights up when Bucky raises his coke to cheers him from across the room. 

Bringing a red plastic cup to his lips, Sam turns away from the scene and walks back over to where Clint and Nat are besting one another at darts.  It’s hours before he even sees Bucky again, but when he does, it’s the beginning of the end.

“Hey, you wanna pass me a Coke?” Bucky asks.  Sam’s got his head all the way inside of the fridge, trying to ease the cake out of the box without smearing the frosting or dropping the damn thing.  There’s an enormous American flag made of berries and frosting, and across the flag “Happy New Year!” is spelled out in blue frosting.

“Kinda busy, Barnes,” Sam says because fuck, the guy is supposed to be Steve’s best friend and he wasn’t around to help with anything today.

“Yeah, well you’re blocking the fridge.”

“I’m getting the damn cake,” Sam answers, too tipsy to keep his annoyance in check.

“Well get me a Coke first.”

Is this guy for fucking real right now?  “Are you for fucking real?” Sam asks, straightening up and turning to Bucky.

“Sweet, you moved!” Bucky says and makes to go around Sam.  Sam’s got his back to the wall where the galley kitchen dead-ends, but takes a step forward to get in Bucky’s face.

“It’s gonna kill you to wait thirty seconds?”

Bucky shrugs, that teasing grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.  “Probably.  Let’s not find out, ‘kay?”

That’s just – Sam has had it.  Barnes is always doing this – showing up at the last minute, making promises he can’t keep, breaking plans for “band practice” and just being a goddamned dick.  Sam pushes Bucky by the shoulder – not hard, just enough to make his irritation with the man clear.

“You could try helping,” Sam says.  “He is your best friend.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky asks, and pushes back.  “I thought you had that covered.  You’re the one who lives with him.”

“Are you serious?” Sam says, getting into Bucky’s face.  Sam was only Steve’s roommate because Bucky gave two weeks’ notice before packing a suitcase and three guitars into a van and heading out to do a tour of the West Coast with his band.

“Are you?” Bucky answers, stepping chest to chest with Sam.  Sam can feel the heat of Bucky’s body and see his eyes grow dark and then oh, oh fuck, Bucky is kissing Sam and Sam has his hands full of Bucky’s t-shirt and then his hair and Sam shivers because Bucky’s mouth is so hot.

They break, staring at each other, breathing hard.  Sam’s mind is screaming what and _what_ and **more.**

Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.  Sam glances out at the crowd to see if anyone saw them.  Relief shoots up his spine when he realizes no one saw.  He looks at Bucky just in time to see him pull a cocky, crooked smile, before leaning around Sam and grabbing a soda from the fridge.  As he pulls back, he lets his fingers drag along Sam’s arm, down to his hip.  “Thanks,” he says, voice gruff.

“Fuck you,” Sam says, and Bucky’s grin widens.  He lifts his eyebrows at Sam.

“Maybe later,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows before turning away and heading back into the crowd, letting it absorb him.

The night rolls on: They sing Auld Lang Syne and watch fireworks from the rooftop patio.  Sam gets a text from his sister, Sarah, wishing him a happy new year.  There’s a family photo of her, her husband John, and their son, Jody.  Jody is wearing a pair of silly glasses that say 2017, and in the image, it looks like he’s trying to paw them off of his head and missing with the clumsy coordination of a toddler.  He’s spent several hours of Christmas Day with them, and it was stilted and awkward, as always.  He selects a canned text response to send and shoves his phone back in his pocket.

Sam has a few more beers, a glass of something sweet and unfairly potent that Clint mixed up, and a couple of shots of tequila that Steve passes him with glee.  Bucky tries to catch his eye a couple of times, but Sam is in no shape for his foolishness tonight. By the time Sam heads to bed, the party’s all wound down, and Sam’s mostly sober.  Steve’s in the corner with a pretty girl in his lap, Clint’s asleep with his head hanging off the couch, and Scott’s curled into a ball at the other end.  Sam doesn’t see Bucky anywhere, which simultaneous pisses him off and gives him cause to breathe a sigh of relief.

“That little shit,” he mutters to himself, chugging a glass of cool water before brushing his teeth.  The shared bathroom is a mess, but at least their group is finally of an age where puking all over the bathroom isn’t a given after a night like this.  He decides not to check behind the shower curtain.  He’s learned from parties past:  he really doesn’t want to know.

He strips down to his boxer briefs and slides into bed.  The sheets are crisp and freshly washed, and it’s heaven at three in the morning.  Snuggling down, he finds sleep already edging at his consciousness, and he’s glad.  He knows Bucky will invade his dreams, but that’s better than staring at the ceiling all night thinking about him.

He’s almost under, in that place where he’s dreaming, but he knows it, when he hears his bedroom door open, then close.

“Sam?”  It’s a harsh whisper in the dark.

Sam starts to shift, but then the bed dips beside him.  “Sam, you awake?”

He groans because of course, Jesus, of course.  It’s Bucky.  As Sam decides whether he wants to turn over or not, he hears the soft pop of buttons and the slide of fabric against skin.  Then the covers lift and Bucky is in bed with him and what in the fuck is Sam’s life anyway?

“What are you doing?” Sam hisses, turning over onto his back.

“Stevie kicked me out and I gotta get some sleep.”

“So you just get into bed with me?  What the fuck, Barnes?”

“Sammy, come on.  There’s no place to sleep out there.”

“Then use the damn tub.”

“Yeah, no.  You don’t wanna know what’s going on in there.” 

Sam huffs out his irritation, then turns away from Bucky.  It’s a queen bed, so it’s big enough for the two of them, but they’re not small guys, so it’s a tight squeeze.  Bucky wiggles and wriggles and Sam is just about to turn over and tell him to settle down when Bucky slides up right beside him and puts his arm over Sam, pulling him in close.

Freezing in place, Sam tries to figure out how to deal with this, when Bucky pushes his nose up against the back of Sam’s neck.

“You still drunk?” he asks.

“Nah, been sobering up for a couple of hours,” Sam answers, and oh, how he wishes that wasn’t true.

“Wanna fuck around?”  Bucky runs his hand from the middle of Sam’s thigh up to his hip before squeezing it and dropping a kiss against the back of Sam’s neck.

“I –“  Sam cuts himself off before he can respond.

“C’mon, Sam.  Want you.”

“You don’t even like me,” Sam says, but turns over all the same.

“Still want you.”

“That wasn’t an invitation earlier.”

“You sure about that?”

Leaning over, Bucky brushes his mouth against Sam’s while looking him in the eyes.  Sam stares back, then finds himself kissing back, and then he lets his brain check out, and his body takes over for a while.

It’s good – Jesus, it’s good.  The things Barnes can do with his mouth should be illegal.  Sam’s right on the edge, has been for a while, and Barnes is taking his sweet damn time.

“Come on,” Sam says, tugging on Bucky’s hair to pull him off his cock.

“Christ you’re bossy,” Bucky says, twisting his fingers to rub over Sam’s prostate again.  

He pulls out his fingers and wipes them on the sheet, and Sam shudders, wrinkles his nose.  “Aw, come on, man.  That’s foul.”

Still, he unwraps the condom and holds it out to Bucky with a muttered “Hurry up.”

“How did I know you’d be a bossy bottom?” Bucky says, rolling the condom down his dick.  “Come on,” he says, tapping Sam’s hip.  “Turn over.  I’m gonna fuck you so hard you can’t speak.”

Sam raises an eyebrow and looks Bucky up and down, but gets to his knees all the same.  “I doubt that.”

“God, do you ever shut up?” Bucky asks, and then pushes the head of his dick inside of Sam, and Sam? Sam does, in fact, shut up.

He shuts up, and then he presses his face into the pillow so that it muffles his grunts and groans because Bucky is fucking into him slow but steady, breaching Sam a little further with every thrust until he’s sliding all the way in, and Sam, okay, Sam might just lose his _mind._

“Fuck,” Sam groans.  “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, then grips Sam’s hips and slams into him.

“Oh, oh, fuck.”

“We covered that,” Bucky says, and slams in again.

Sam meets his thrust that time, and as he does, his mind blanks out a little, to the place where he’s not thinking about anything, he’s letting go of everything and just feeling, letting his body get what it needs.

Bucky leans down over him and wraps a hand around Sam’s cock, and Sam’s caught between the two kinds of pleasure and they’re both winding him so high up he might not ever come down.

It doesn’t work like that, of course, and when he comes, he’s aware of shouting into his pillow and Bucky’s left hand squeezing his shoulder tight as the right strokes him through his orgasm.  Bucky pulls back then and slams into Sam a few more times before coming with a whimper and falling across Sam’s back.

They lay like that for a minute, both of them heaving, sticky, and sweat slicked.  Sam’s just about ready to drift off when Bucky pulls away.  He hears something soft hit the trash can and then feels the mattress dip again as Bucky climbs back into bed, then snuggles up behind him. His last thought before he falls asleep is that the word surprise is profoundly inadequate for what he’s feeling right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently read ["A Game Show Love Connection"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11837283/chapters/26718591) by the amazing emphasisonem. It's Stucky and Shrunkyclunks and I love it. 
> 
> Concrit is always welcome. 
> 
> I'm [chicklette on Tumblr.](https://chicklette.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has a Bad Day. Steve isn't as dumb as he looks. Hi, VA! Bucky makes Sam feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **There is brief mention of an off-screen suicide by a male OC in this chapter. There is also mention of drug use and abuse.**
> 
> Huge thanks to Buffyscribbles for the alpha-beta work. <3 love you!
> 
> Also massive thanks to Ty again for the help. I'm not worthy! <3

_Peregrines are creatures of habit. Like tony jet-setters with expensive apartments and high-rise condos scattered through midtown Manhattan, wild Peregrines typically select two or three nest sites within a given territory, and move among them from year to year. - **Courtship, Mating and Nest Preparation, http://rfalconcam.com/imprinting/?p=7**_

 

 

The next time that Steve has late night office hours, Bucky shows up with a pizza and a box of condoms.  Then Steve takes a long weekend with Clint, Scott and Nat to Clint’s family farm upstate, and Bucky shows up on Friday night and doesn’t leave until Monday morning.  Sam is so thoroughly fucked out that he actually calls in sick, just to catch up on sleep.  If he thought Bucky fucking him was a revelation? Hell, fucking Bucky was something else entirely.  The sounds he makes.  The goddamned _sounds_.

Sam comes home one Thursday night to find Bucky on the couch, and a pile of Thai food on the coffee table.  It’s clear within the first moments that whatever it is they do when they’re fucking around is just that – fucking around.  Bucky is his typical self, which is to say he’s a complete ass, and Sam begs off early, citing an early morning meeting.  He doesn’t know if he’s surprised or disappointed when Bucky doesn’t crawl into his bed in the middle of the night. Both?  Neither?

Either way, Sam is having the best sex of his life, and he has no desire to stop.

It goes on like that for the next several weeks.  Sam keeps thinking he should find time to go on an actual date, but it’s getting hard to convince himself to make an effort when he can just call Bucky and have Bucky’s pretty mouth and Bucky’s talented fingers bringing him off six ways from Sunday.

It’s not good for him. He knows this.

There are times when he’s honest with himself and he knows that what’s he’s doing is not compatible with what he really wants, but he can’t seem to stop himself.  Every time that Bucky calls, Sam finds a reason to answer, to cancel his previous plans, and to be wherever Bucky wants him to be.  Bucky coaxes things out of Sam that he’s never felt before, and he’s become so Pavlovian that gets half hard just seeing Bucky’s name pop up on his phone.

Still, there are times when Sam goes to sleep at night, Bucky curled around his back and breathing softly next to him, that Sam wonders if maybe he was meant for something more.  His fantasies have less to do with hard bodies and skin against skin, and more to do with coming home at night to someone smiling just to see him.  Perfect cups of coffee delivered with a kiss to his cheek, and someone calling in the middle of the day, just to hear his voice.

The fantasy’s not enough to get him to dust off his OK Cupid account, or even accept any of his friend’s offers to set him up.  It’s not enough to keep him out of Bucky’s bed, either. It’s just enough to make Sam a little wistful.  To feel a little lonely, with his lover’s arms wrapped around him in the dark.

It’s an early spring day when Sam comes home from his late class to find Bucky on the couch with Steve, both of them playing Mario Kart.  

“Ready player three?” Steve yells.

“Nah, I’m wiped,” Sam says, and he is.  He’d had an early study group for one of his classes and then put in a full 10 hours at the VA.  They’d lost a patient: Davis, a man whose tour ended when his tank went over an IED.  He’d lost the hearing in his left ear and vision in his left eye, and was the only survivor.  Sam led the small survivor’s group that Davis attended outside of his one-on-ones with Maria.  Sam was in Maria’s office when she got the call.  It was something Sam hadn’t gotten used to yet, and every single time, it threw him into memories of Riley and Sam’s C.O. saying “I’m sorry, son.”  

He was the last man to ever call Sam son.

“You okay?” Steve asks, setting down his controller.  “There’s a couple of Sammy’s in the fridge and enchiladas on the stove if you’re hungry.”

Sam shrugs, but goes to the fridge and swipes a Sam Adams, a joke that Steve thinks is hilarious and that Sam secretly loves.  

He hears Bucky mumble and Steve pipes up again.  “Oh yeah.  There’s some kind of bird that’s been hanging around the fire escape.  I haven’t gotten a look at it yet, but try not to disturb it if you can.”

Sam makes a noise of agreement, then turns to the microwave.  His hand is wrapped tight around his beer and he’s waiting for the food to heat when Steve ducks into the kitchen.

“What’s going on?”  Those big blue eyes are full of concern, and Sam can’t help but notice that they’re not at all the color that he sees in his dreams these days.  He knows this thing with Bucky is nothing but trouble, but he can’t bring himself to stop.  

So, great.  One more thing he’s fucking up.

Sam shakes his head.  “Lost a guy today.  Shotgun to the head.  His big brother found him.”

Sam swallows hard, because Riley hadn’t had a big brother, hadn’t had anyone but Sam to mourn him and it wasn’t fair - this guy gets to come home, has a fucking _family,_ and he still throws it away while Riley – Riley was gone.  

Sam was the only one who ever got to see him shine.

Steve comes close, then wraps his arms around Sam and holds him tight while Sam lets himself really feel his grief.  He knows it’s not all for Riley and it’s not for Davis either, but it’s for all of them: all the ones that Sam doesn’t save, all the kids without a family and all the families whose kids never got to come home.

Breathing deep, he squeezes his eyes shut and feels the tears that gathered along his lashes tip over, marking two damp spots on Steve’s shirt.  Steve is stoic, rarely showing deep emotion, but he’s let Sam be there for him when he needed it.  He thinks again about the parallels to Riley - the lack of family, the stoic exterior, the fact that at one time or another, Sam’s been head over heels in love with both of their straight, white asses.  

The thought shakes him out of his misery just long enough to laugh at himself.  

“I’ll be alright, man,” he says, pushing back from Steve.  “Thanks.”

Sam turns just in time to see Bucky hovering at the edge of the kitchen and ain’t that a bitch.  The last goddamned thing he needs is looking all sad in front of his regular hook-up.  He turns to busy himself with the food, doctoring the enchiladas with salsa and sour cream, and when he turns back around, both Steve and Bucky are gone, headed back to the couch to play more Mario Kart. Sam eats leaning against the stove, swallowing huge bites and washing it all down with the cold beer.  When he’s done, he rinses his dish, puts it in the dishwasher, (ignores the two other plates sitting in the sink), grabs another beer and heads to his room for the night.  

With any luck, the second beer will be just enough to take the edge off, and Sam will get something resembling a decent night’s sleep.

It doesn’t work, of course.  It’s after one in the morning and he’s just startled awake from his second nightmare.  He flops back over, listening to the bed creak when his door opens and Bucky’s silhouette appears in the moonlight.

“Hey,” Bucky says.  “Thought I heard you up.”  And then he’s stripping off his clothes and climbing into bed with Sam.  Sam’s about to tear into him, light him up for offering pity sex, but then Bucky says, “I’ve been thinking about your dick all night,” and there’s nothing tender or sweet in the way Bucky’s hands are on Sam’s body, so maybe it’s not a pity fuck after all.  

Whatever it is, it’s good.  Bucky is relentless, his mouth everywhere on Sam’s skin, pushing and pulling until Sam is out of his mind with want.  When Bucky finally slides down onto Sam’s dick, Sam feels like he might die if he doesn’t get to come right then.  Instead, he holds Bucky still, gripping his thighs as Bucky adjusts, and takes a moment to pull himself together.

He wraps a hand around Bucky’s hip and encourages him to move, and Bucky responds with a brilliant smile before he begins rocking his hips.  It’s isn’t long before he’s fucking into Bucky hard and fast, Bucky tossing his head back and looking utterly focused on his own pleasure.

“Sam, Sam, fuck!  M’gonna come,” Bucky whines and just hearing him say it brings Sam so much closer to the edge.

“Hold on, baby,” he says.  “Can you hold on for me?  Just a little bit?”  And it’s – shit, that’s _new,_ he thinks, the endearment and the desire to be right there with Bucky when he comes.

Bucky whimpers and bites his lip, taking his hand off his cock.

Sam digs his heels into the bed and thrusts up, hard and fast, and it’s only a few more moments before he’s saying, “Now, baby, come on, come with me.”

Bucky does, his hand flying over his cock until he’s spurting hot and wet across Sam’s chest.  Sam curls up off the mattress with the force of his orgasm, his senses full of Bucky, the way he looks and sounds, his body hot and tight around Sam’s cock.

He wants to reach out, press his face into Bucky’s chest, have the younger man hold him as he comes down.  Instead, the flops back onto the mattress, his hands still gripping Bucky’s thighs.  Bucky lifts up, once, twice and Sam is shaking with the overstimulation, so good it’s almost painful.  His abs tighten and he curls up again, his whole body lighting up with aftershocks.

Bucky leans forward, drawing Sam into a hungry kiss as Sam shivers through the final moments of his orgasm.  As the overstimulation fades, he finds himself gasping and laughing.

“Enough,” he laughs, pushing Bucky away.  “Jesus.  You trying to kill me?”

Bucky grins.  “Nah, just your dick.”

“Mission accomplished,” Sam says, still smiling.  He feels good, looser than he did before Bucky turned up, and he’s grateful.  It strikes him that this might be the first time he’s ever laughed with Bucky.  It’s…it’s not terrible.

Bucky takes care of the condom and grabs a t-shirt from the hamper to wipe them both down.

“You’re a troll, Barnes,” Sam says, but he’s got a soft smile on his face and honestly? He’s done worse.

Bucky grabs a bottle of water he must have brought in with him and passes it to Sam.  It’s still cool and tastes wonderfully sweet on his tongue.  He drinks half before handing it back to Bucky, who finishes it off.

“You staying?” Sam asks, and Bucky tips his head back and forth.

“Oh, I suppose.”  He draws himself up and winks at Sam.  “Knew you couldn’t get enough of me, Wilson.”  He climbs back into bed and Sam smirks as he rolls onto his side.

“You wish,” he says.

Bucky sidles up beside him and wraps an arm around Sam’s waist, pulling Sam tight against his chest.

“Shut it,” Bucky says, resting his forehead against the back of Sam’s neck.

Sam feels loose and soft all over.  The exhaustion that he knew was there, but wouldn’t let himself feel, steals over him and he realizes he feels cared for, for the first time in a really long time.  He knows it’s not what Bucky meant, but it’s nice.  It’s _good._  It wakes that yearning inside of him though, and he fights the urge to turn over, to kiss Bucky sweet and tender, with nothing behind it but the desire to be good to someone, and have them be good to him.

As he hovers on the edge of sleep and wakefulness, Sam almost misses the soft kiss that Bucky brushes at the back of his neck.  He lets out a breathy sigh as he tips over the edge, and into a deep, dreamless sleep.

.

Sam drifts awake the next morning before his alarm goes off.  He knows without moving that he’s alone.  He’s disappointed and doesn’t know why.  What was he expecting?

He stretches, feeling the slight strain in his muscles from the previous night’s activities.  It’s a pleasant soreness, and he thinks about turning over and going right back to sleep, but he knows a run will make him feel better, and he wants to touch base with Steve after being such a mess the night before.

The run though is awkward.  Steve is taciturn and looks like he’s right on the edge of saying something, but then bites it back.

Sam’s leaning against the fridge, coasting down from his endorphin high and drinking juice right out of the carton like the motherless child he is when Steve gives him a hard look.  Sam furrows his brow in question, but Steve shakes his head and walks away to the shower.

Still, Sam can’t stop puzzling over it, and when Steve emerges from his bedroom, all cleaned up and wearing his “Professor Rogers” uniform, Sam gets up from where he’s been surfing the internet in the living room and goes to him.

“What’s up, man?”

Steve looks at him and gets that complicated look on his face – the one he gets just before every fight – and takes a deep breath and faces Sam head-on.  

“Just – what are you doing, Sam?”

Sam gives him a questioning look, mind racing.  Then it dawns on him, and fuck.   _Fuck._

“It’s not what you think,” he says.  Steve gives Sam his best disappointed dad look, and Sam’s heart sinks a little, because he realizes that it’s exactly what Steve thinks.

“It’s not?  So that wasn’t Bucky skirting out of here at five o’clock this morning?  Give me a break, Sam.  You’re not as sneaky - _or quiet_ \- as you think you are.  You think I don’t notice all you coming and going all hours of the night?”

Sam does feel bad about that.  They _have_ been trying to keep it down. Trying, but clearly not succeeding.

Sam shrugs.  “It’s just sex, man.  That’s all.”

“What do you think is going to happen here, man?  Because you two can barely be in the same room without sniping at each other, so if you think this is going to end well for either of you, I’m pretty sure you’re mistaken.”

“Steve,” Sam starts, and then stop himself.  He hasn’t had anyone look that disappointed in him since he was sixteen years old, and it fills him with a shame he didn’t know he could feel anymore.  Steve is leaning against the back of the couch and Sam focuses on the window behind him, the bare branches of the trees starting to sprout.  A bird swoops past, big and colorful.

“I know you’re worried about him,” Sam starts.

“I’m worried about both of you.  Jesus, Sam, I can’t – I won’t choose between you.”  Steve stands tall, flaps his arms before bringing them to rest on either hip.

Sam draws back, affronted.  “No one’s asking you to.”

“No, not yet.  But what happens when you realize that the only thing you like about each other is your dicks?”

“Hey!” Sam says, his voice rising to match Steve’s.  “I am a grown ass man and I am not having you talk to me like I’m a damn child.  “

“Then quit acting like one!”

Sam holds his hand up, steps back.  “I’m not doing this with you right now.  We are consenting adults.  I’m sorry if you have a problem with this, Steve, but it really is _your_ problem.”

Sam puts the OJ back in the fridge and hits the shower until the water runs cold.  He’s – he’s _hurt_ and he’s furious, and he lets the anger take over.

It sits with him throughout the day, making him feel strung tight and snappish, like every little thing is going wrong:  he gets the subway just as his train is leaving; the lid on his coffee cup isn’t on tight and it dribbles all the way down his shirt; when he gets to the deli for lunch, they give him egg salad (fucking foul) instead of ham and Swiss.

He catches America, his coworker, giving him a look and decides to take himself away from decent company for a while. He knows when he’s being a bear.

He walks down to the basement to work on filing some reports.  Maria, his boss, has been letting Sam lead some of the small group sessions, and Sam keeps files on attendance and general topics of discussion.  They’re a pain in the ass due to the required format, and it’s a job that no one likes.  He’s about halfway through the stack when Peter comes by with a cup of coffee for Sam.  As Peter sets the cup down, his hand slips and the coffee spills all over the desk, ruining enough reports that Sam just loses it.

“Can you pay the fuck attention to what you’re doing?  Do you know how long it’s going to take me to redo this?”

“Sorry! I’m sorry!”  Peter’s eyes are wide and his voice shakes a little and that’s all it takes to put Sam in check.

He hangs his head. “No, I’m sorry, Parker.  I know it was an accident and I did _not_ mean to yell at you.  That was unacceptable.  Just…I’m sorry.”

Sam gathers his soggy reports and brings them back upstairs.  He ducks into Maria’s office to let her know what happened.

“So you yelled at the sixteen year-old kid who is so passionate about helping people that he comes here to spend his free time?  Is that right?”  She peers at him over the rim of her glasses and Sam feels fucking terrible.

Maria Hill is the most poised, competent person he has ever met.  She can communicate disappointment, anger, or pride with nothing more than a blink and a twitch of her lips.

Sam nods.  “I know.  I apologized and told him it was unacceptable.”

“Go home, Wilson.  Have a beer, watch a movie, run some laps, whatever you need to do to get your head back on straight.”

“Maria – Ms. Hill – I can finish out the day.  I’m sorry.  This won’t happen again.”

“I know it won’t.  Now get out.  And don’t forget to redo your reports, first thing Monday.  Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sitting on the train going home, Sam tips his head back and closes his eyes.  He’s never been sent home from work before.  Never. It smarts that he’s brought his personal life to work with him in such a negative way.

His thoughts drift back to Steve, and he knows there’s something more at play here.  He and Steve have never had an argument like that.  Sure, they’ve disagreed, but they’d never raised their voices to one another, not in earnest.

When Sam gets home, the apartment is quiet.  He makes a snack, then thinks about a nap as he eats.  His sister calls, and he automatically thumbs the call to ignore.

It’s not that he doesn’t love her.  He does.  He _does._

But he is not in a place to take on any more guilt, and his sister has a way of pushing his buttons like no one else.  She’s always after him to find a nice girl, get married, come back to church.  She says “you can fall in love with a woman just as easy as a man,” but no, Sarah, he actually can’t.  It’s not that he hasn’t tried.  He likes women - likes dating them, loves kissing them, likes fucking them - but he’s never been able to tip over into love with one, and when he pictures himself way off in the future?  It’s not a woman who’s holding his hand.

Sam takes his laptop to the kitchen table and starts pulling together the bibliography for his thesis.  He’s writing about reintegration preparedness for combat vets, with the hope of shining a light on the lack of resources available during exit interviews.  Instead of pressuring folks to re-up, the military needs to be shunting these folks to mental health services and educating them on healthy coping mechanisms.  At least, that’s how Sam sees it.

A couple of hours pass and Sam is deep into his research when he hears Steve at the front door.  In a flash, their argument from that morning comes back to him, and Sam hits save before closing down his laptop.  His day might have started on a shit note, but it doesn’t have to end on one.

“Hey,” Steve says as he walks in, setting his messenger bag down by the door.  He’s been growing out his beard and it makes him look older, more distinguished.  It makes him look good, if Sam’s being honest.

“Hey,” Sam returns.

“Listen, about -”

“I didn’t mean to -”

They both smile at each other, and there’s a round of “No, you first, man”’s, until finally Steve sighs and holds his hands up.

“I don’t get it, Sam.  It’s just not your style.”

Sam gives him a look like “are you kidding me right now?” because it’s not like Steve’s been living like a monk.  Sure, he’s had a series of long-term relationships that didn’t quite pan out, but it’s not like he hasn’t had his share of hook ups, too.

“You know what I mean, Sam.”  

“Yeah, I guess I do,” Sam answers, because, damn, it is true.  Sam can probably count the number of one-night stands he’s had on one hand, but definitely on two.  Never felt right to him, leading someone on.  “Look, we’re just fucking around, okay?  Fuck buddies.  And Bucky’s a player, you know that.”

“Do I?”

“You’re seriously trying to tell me he’s not?  Come on, man, you’ve seen him - dragging his guitar out and doing that soulful singer bit.  He’s kind of an attention whore - not that that’s necessarily a bad thing.  Guy knows what he’s about, gotta give him that.”

“Wow, you two really don’t do much talking, do you?”

Sam gives him what Steve calls ‘Sam face,’ and what America calls his best “bitch, please” face.

Breathing deep, Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, then seems to come to some kind of decision.

“Look, I promised myself I’m not going to get involved, and I’m not.  You know he’s been through a lot.  Just, tread easy?  For both your sakes?”

Sam nods and says okay, just for the sake of keeping the peace, but he is fucking _weary._  He doesn’t want to be angry at Steve.  Steve is a good man, and he cares about Sam - he would go to the mat for Sam, no questions asked.

But when the fuck is it going to be Sam’s turn?  When is someone going to tread easy with him, with his heart for once?  When is someone going to be on _his_ side first?

He goes to bed pissed off and wakes up the same way.  He runs with Steve, and for a change, he’s the one setting the pace.  Since it’s the weekend and he’s not due at the VA, he takes himself to the library where he spends the day surfing the internet and making almost zero progress on his thesis.  His sister calls, Steve texts, and Janelle, one of his classmates, texts.  He ignores all of them, but when Bucky’s name flashes as Sam’s phone dances across the table, he reaches for it.

**Fucky Barnes** : Bored.  Come entertain me.

 **SW:** <not amused emoji> I’m in a mood.

 **Fucky Barnes:** I’ll do that thing you like with my tongue.  C’mon, buddy.

Sam swallows, because fuck, he loves it when Bucky does that.

 **SW:** Holding you to that.  Be there in 30. Be ready.

 **Fucky Barnes:**   Hitting the shower now.

 

Five minutes later, he’s got his stuff packed up and is headed to Bucky’s place.  Bucky shares an apartment with three other guys, and the state of the place is generally “Foul Bachelor Frog” chic.  Sam knocks and Bucky answers, and sixty seconds later Bucky’s kicking the door to his bedroom shut as Sam strips off his shirt.  

The sex is exactly what Sam needs - it’s hard and sharp and fast, all biting mouths and bruising fingers, Sam driving into Bucky, almost frantic with it, both of them crying out with each thrust.  

When it’s over, Sam’s barely has time to catch his breath before Bucky is on him, opening him up gentle and soft, taking his time and making it sweet, until Sam’s half out of his mind and not thinking about anything but how good he feels.  Bucky pushes into Sam from behind, and he takes it so slow and easy, hands stroking, mouth licking, soft moans into the shell of Sam’s ear.  Sam feels his climax gather at the base of his spine, and it’s almost excruciating how languid and sweet it builds, coming on slow but relentless until he is nothing but his need to come.  When it happens, he squeezes his eyes shut so tight against the pleasure that his lashes are wet when he finally opens his eyes.  

He’s mindless for long moments, floating on the ether of his pleasure.  When he finally takes notice of what’s going on around him, he finds Bucky’s cleaned them both up and is holding a bottle of cold water out to Sam.

“Yeah, thanks,” he says, dazed and wondering how he got here, exactly, tucked into Bucky’s bed, with Bucky naked and smiling down at him, that sly grin saying he knows exactly how well-fucked Sam is right now.

“Glad I called,” Bucky says, wiping the sweat from his face with his forearm.  “I am definitely skipping leg day tomorrow.”

“Dude, never skip leg day,” Sam replies, relying on internet bro humor because the part of his brain that works is still in the wet spot that’s drying between them.

Grinning, Bucky nestles a kiss into the corner of Sam’s jaw.  

“Need another one?” he asks, and Sam groans.  

“I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

“Hmm,” Bucky says, and proceeds to kiss his way down Sam’s body.  Sam’s dick shows no signs of life, not even when Bucky takes it into his mouth, suckling, gentle and soft.

Sam groans and pushes Bucky away, and Bucky comes back up to lay next to Sam.

“I feel very proud,” Bucky says.

Sam quirks a brow at him.

“I did it!  I finally broke your dick!”

Sam laughs at that, his first genuine laugh in days.  “Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back.”

“Nah.  I’m flexible.  Wanna see?”  Bucky gives him a grin and sits up, but Sam drags him back down, pushes him onto his back and then lays across his chest.  

“What I wanna see is the inside of my eyelids,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky answers, but he puts his arms around Sam and squeezes.  Sam’s last thought before he falls asleep is that even covered in sweat and sex?  Bucky Barnes smells fucking _good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished the BEST OT3 fic. You guys, you gotta read this. It's Sam pov and it's fucking *gorgeous* and flawless and amazing. It's titled [that's what you get for dreaming aloud](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6921910/chapters/15791059) and it's amazing. Go read and give the author some love. 
> 
> Next chapter is still on track to be up next week. I keep thinking I'm getting close to done writing this, but then I find a new scene to add (and let's be real, it's mostly smut), and yeah. It's still at least 75% drafted, and complete up to chapter 5, but it might run closer to 9 or 10 chapters. So far I'm still on track to post weekly. I'll let y'all know if that changes. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> ps - hi Jimbo. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam visits Sarah. Steve and Sam have a heart-to-heart. Bucky takes the stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Buffyscribbles for her beta work, encouragement and friendship. I heart you, bb.

“Conventionally, peregrines nest high on crag, cliff and quarry faces, giving them a clear view of potential prey and keeping their young safe from predators. Tall buildings mimic cliff faces, providing urban-nesting peregrines with a good vantage point and a flat ledge to nest on." - http://www.bbc.com/earth/story/20150626-the-predator-ruling-uk-city-skies

 

The next morning, Sam wakes to a voice, low and murmuring.  

“Okay.  Yeah, I know.  What about -”

There was a beat.

“Did you try - okay, okay.”

Silence.

“Is it a clicking or more of a whine?  What do you mean you don’t know?”

The voice starts gets louder and Sam cracks an eye to see Bucky sitting at the edge of the bed, bent over his knees and talking on the phone.

“Okay, no, that sounds like the starter.”

Silence again, then:

“No, Becs, that was the alternator, this is different.”

There’s another pause and Sam blinks, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes.

“Well honey, it has over two hundred thousand miles on it.  These things are going to happen.”

Another pause.

“I know, I know.  Honey, relax.  I’ll get out there today.  M’gonna stop by the pick-a-part place on my way, see if I can pull an alternator rather than having to buy one new one.”

Sam sits up.  He’s caught between wanting to offer to help somehow, and some jealousy that despite everything, Bucky and his sister are this close.  Would Sarah think to call him if she was really stuck?  Sam thinks probably not.  Hell, she’s never even called him to babysit his nephew, Jody, and the kid’s already almost two years old.

Sam listens as Bucky wraps up his call, then turns over and stretches.  

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” Sam says.  “I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Oh.  Uhm,” Bucky looks around the room for a moment, something on his face that Sam can’t quite place.  Sam had been hoping for round three this morning, but Sam knows from the six months that Steve had had a car that the nearest junkyard is in Jersey, and Bucky probably needs to get moving if he’s going to grab a part and get over to Becca’s today.  A part of him was thinking about seeing if Bucky wanted to grab some breakfast before they both got on with their days.  They’ve made a few forays at conversation that didn’t devolve into dick jokes, harsh words, or sex.  Sam wonders if they might continue that trent.

“It’s cool,” Sam says, getting up and fishing around the room for his shorts.  He slides them on, then his jeans, and the thick sweatshirt he’d been wearing when Bucky called.  The city is starting to thaw, and Sam runs warm, so if the sun’s out, he’s probably going to be too warm, but it’s a short subway ride back to his house, and he is not about to ask Barnes for a shirt.

“Oh, hey,” he says, turning to face Bucky.  “I got a lecture from dad yesterday.  Needless to say, he is not a fan of our arrangement.  Don’t worry though, I told him it was just sex.  No need to get his panties in a twist.”

Bucky looks at him, kind of stunned for a moment, before he responds.  “Steve said something?  About us?”

“Oh, yeah.  Don’t be surprised if he comes at you, too.”

“What did he say, exactly?”  Bucky’s got a strange, almost desperate look on his face and it pushes at that helping part of Sam.

“Hey, don’t worry.  Like I said, man, I told him it was just sex.  We’re all good.”

Something flashes across Bucky’s face, but before Sam can try to pin it down, Bucky’s back in motion.  

“Yeah.  Yeah, okay.  Thanks for the head’s up.  I gotta grab a shower,” he says, then takes some clothes out of his dresser before leaving the room.  

That he doesn’t look back twinges something in Sam, but he’s not willing to look close enough to put a name on it.  Not before coffee.

.

Later that morning he sucks a deep breath and pulls out his phone.  He hasn’t been able to get Bucky’s conversation with Becca off his mind, and he knows himself well enough to know that it’ll eat at him if he doesn’t just nip it in the bud.

“Hello?”  The voice on the other end of the phone warms him, and he hopes this conversation will be a good one.

“Hey, Sarah,”

“Well if it isn’t Samuel Thomas Wilson himself.  What’s going on, big brother?”

Sam shrugs, then realizes she can’t see him.

“Just wanted to check in on my little sister,” he says.  The conversation already feels awkward, making Sam wonder why he bothered.

“Well, hey,” Sarah says.  “John’s out of town for a couple of days.  He’s got some meetings upstate.  You wanna come over for dinner and keep me and the baby company?”

Sam finds himself agreeing, promising to stop by Lee Lee’s for a cherry pie on his way.

Sarah lives in the house that they grew up in.  Half of it is Sam’s, and Sarah and her husband have offered to buy him out, but he’s content to let the investment sit.  He’s not ready to buy a home yet, has no idea where he’ll settle, so for now, the house is Sarah’s, and Sam’s satisfied with that.  Besides, the school district is good, and Jody’s pre-school is right down the block.

Sam feels a little nervous when he gets to the house, like he’s going to a stranger’s home.  It’s distressing in a deep, primal way.

Sarah greets him and the front door and immediately pawns the baby off onto Sam.  Jody looks at him with big, dark eyes filled with curiosity.

“Well hello, little man,” Sam says, and Jody’s face lights up with wonder.

“Yeah, buddy, I’m talking to you.  Can you say hi to your Uncle Sam?”

“Am!” Jody exclaims, before reaching forward to pat Sam’s cheeks.

“That’s right,” Sarah calls from the kitchen.  “That’s your Uncle Sam Sammich.”

“Oh don’t you start with that,” Sam says.  “Miss Sarah-the-bear-a-who-likes-to-stare-a.”

“Haha!”  Sarah’s laughter from the kitchen is joyous and Jody laughs while in Sam’s arms, small body warm and wiggling.  “I can’t believe you remember that!”

“Come on, now.  I’ve had the goods on you since birth!”

Sarah peeks around the corner and rolls her eyes at him, but she’s grinning his favorite kid-sister grin.  She’s tall for a woman, not a whole lot shorter than Sam, with skin a little lighter than his, and her hair sitting in a big poof at the top of her head.

“You know I bet with that hair you’re as tall as me.”

“Good thing I married a big man,” she says, grinning.  Her husband, John, is easily 6’5”, and built like a solid wall.  Sam never got to know him well, but Sarah seems happy, so that’s all that really matters.  She’d met John while Sam was serving, and by the time he got out, Sarah was married and his relationship with her was strained.  Nothing was really right after Mama died.

“Am-am!” Jody says, and Sam chuckles, his previous nervousness dissipating like so much smoke in the air.

Sam and Sarah chat over dinner.  Sarah catches him up on the gossip from church, and tells him about the promotion that John’s working toward.  She puts the baby down to sleep and the two of them continue their chatter over coffee and pie.

“What about you? Still running around with that white boy?”  Sam feels the judgement bleed into her tone, and like that, the ease of the evening disappears.

“Come on, Sarah.  You know I still live with Steve.”

“Still in love with him?”

He gives her a shot of Sam-face, and rolls his eyes.  “You know it wasn’t like that with us.”

“Yeah, just like it wasn’t like that with Riley, either.”

Sam draws back, stunned.  Riley had always been welcome in Sam’s home, always.  He’d been shunted from one foster home to another, before landing with an uncle up in Albany.  The only part of Riley that the uncle cared about was cashing the support checks, so when he ran away to Sam’s house at fifteen, Sam’s parents came to an arrangement with the uncle, and Riley’s permanent address became Sam’s.  They’d been inseparable their whole lives.  Riley was the first person Sam ever came out to, the first person he’d ever loved, and losing him in Afghanistan had been like losing a limb.  Hearing Sarah speak of him with disdain brings Sam’s defenses to the fore.

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks, setting down his coffee cup.

Sarah must see her mistake, because her face softens and she shakes her head.

“Nothing.  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

“Bring up what, exactly?”

Sarah shrugs, looks away.

“You think I know you don’t approve, Sarah?  What is it, ‘love the sinner, hate the sin?’ Is Pastor still singing that line?”  He’s suddenly furious.  He can’t think about the church without thinking about what he’s lost, and he can’t think about that without being so, so angry.

“Sam-”

“No.  I’m sorry, this was a mistake.  I shouldn’t have come here today.”

“Sam, don’t go.”

“Why? So I can sit here and be judged by you?  I’m sorry I’m not who you wanted me to be.  You don’t think I’ve tried?  You know how many women I’ve dated, hoping I’d feel a tenth for them that I felt for Riley?  You know how much easier my life would be?”

And it would.  God, it would.  But it’s not who he is and he’s not going to pretend, not for an instant.  Losing his folks and then Riley, one after the other, showed him how fleeting life can be.  If he starts compromising who he is – what kind of life is that?

“I’m sorry,” Sarah says.  “Please.  I haven’t seen you in so long.”

Sam looks at her pleading face, feels the tug of responsibility pull at him, but he shakes his head.  “I’ll call you soon,” he says, and walks to the front door.  “Give Jody a kiss for me.”

When Sam gets home he finds that Steve isn’t there and feels a little bit of relief, which immediately makes him feel frustrated.  Thinking about it, his arrangement with Bucky seems to be the only drama-free relationship in his life, and he figures that that’s only true because they don’t actually talk.

Except.

Except they do.  Actually talk.

When they’re not fucking each other unconscious, they’ve found a way to talk to each other without taking cheap shots at one another.  Bucky’s actually a pretty funny guy, and whatever Sam might think about his past, it’s clear that once Bucky counts you among those he cares for, he’s both loyal and protective.

He’s a hard worker, too; Sam hardly sees him without a guitar in hand, and while the guy bartends a few nights a week at a local pub, Sam knows he also spends most of his Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights playing gigs with the Howlies, and whatever other local bands will have him.  Sam would never admit it to Steve – or Bucky – but there’s a lot to admire about the guy.

Sam thinks about calling Bucky, but lets it slide.

He hears a rustling outside and looks to see a pair of birds – big ones – perched on the fire escape.  It’s hard to get a good look at them in the twilight, but they seem to be dark – maybe gray?  With white, speckled breasts. 

“Yo,” he says, watching through the glass.  “Think you two must be lost. The trees are that way,” he says, pointing north.  One of the birds flutters its wings, then flies off.  Its partner joins a moment later. “Dumb birds,” he says, then roams back to his bedroom.

Since it’s Sunday, Sam starts a load of laundry and gets ready to do some meal prep for the week.  He and Steve both need a lot of lean protein and a lot of calories to keep their bodies in shape.  From what Steve’s said, he was a skinny little kid and didn’t hit his growth spurt until he was almost out of high school.  It was natural for the two of them to become work out buddies.  When they moved in together, Sam started meal prepping for the two of them as way to keep them on track when their weeks got too busy.  It’s a good arrangement: Steve usually does the shopping and clean up, and Sam does the prep.  He’s frying bacon for breakfast burritos and slicing melon when Steve walks in.

“Need a hand?” Steve asks.

“Nah, man, I got this.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair, then rubs the back of his neck.  “We okay?” he asks.  He’s ducked his head and is looking up at Sam through his lashes, a crease of worry across his brow.

And shit.  Even if he wants to be mad at Steve, he can’t.

Especially not when he takes the time to recognize why Steve was so upset.  Steve’s father died in the Gulf War, and Steve had never known him.  His folks were both only children, and once Steve’s mom died when he was just twenty, Steve was left with a distant great-aunt that he hadn’t seen in almost a decade, and Bucky.  Now he has Sam, Scott, Clint, Nat and Bruce, as well as a few others, but by Sam’s reckoning, Steve’s already down some people.  He’s definitely not looking to lose any more, especially over a fuck-buddy situation gone wrong.

Sam sets the knife that he’s been using aside and wipes his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder.  He turns to face Steve.

“We’re good, man.  I’m sorry that I lost my temper.”

“I’m sorry, too.  You’re right – it’s really none of my business.”

Sam smiles, puts his hand out to shake, and Steve grabs it, then pulls him in for a hug.

“Hey, at least now I can stop worrying about the two of you getting along,” Steve says.

“We’re not dating, man.  Just fucking.”

“Jesus, Sam, I don’t need the details.”

Sam cocks his head, a mischievous grin tugging at his mouth.  “No?  You don’t want to know it feels when he –“

Steve flushes scarlet and stuffs his fingers in his ears.  “Lalalala I can’t hear you!” he yells, backing away toward his bedroom.

Sam laughs and goes back to his chopping, feeling lighter than he has in days.

.

The great thing about hipster bars is they make one hell of an old-fashioned.  Sam sips his artisan bourbon with its glacial-water ice cube and satsuma orange zest and thinks at least he’s getting this out of the deal.  When Bucky’d announced that the Howlies were doing a series of gigs locally, Steve rallied the troops to come out and support their friend.  It’s something that Sam’s done a dozen times or so, because even though there’s always been some low-key animosity between Sam and Bucky, it’s nothing serious.  And when Sam’s being real with himself, he knows that.

Still.

There’s a part of him that loves to hate Bucky.  Loves it for all the times that he’s let Steve down, for the casual way that he treats everything in his life, like nothing but his music matters.  Sam knows better.  He knows that the bond that Steve and Bucky share is a lot like the bond he had with Riley, maybe even down to the unrequited love.  Steve and Bucky are like siblings.  And Sam knows that when it’s important, Bucky shows up.

On the surface though, when Sam’s the one listening to a drunk, broken-hearted Steve at three am because it didn’t work out with Carly or Karen or Kim, or when Sam’s the one stopping by the deli for soup when Steve’s sick, that’s when he wonders just what the hell Steve sees in Bucky.

And Bucky – Bucky Barnes has never met a stranger, that’s for sure.  He charms damn near everyone he meets, and has a way of talking to people that makes them feel like they’re the center of the universe.

The first time Sam met Bucky was at one of Steve’s birthday parties.  Sam had lost his mother just a few months prior, and he and Steve had bonded over their orphan status.  Steve insisted that Sam join him and his friends for the Fourth of July party, and Sam had shown up, feeling like a real asshole at not knowing it was also Steve’s birthday party.

Bucky showed up just before fireworks, and for the rest of the evening, anytime that Sam had looked his way, Bucky was surrounded by people who seemed to be hanging on his every word.  Eventually he pulled out his guitar, and proceeded to send the rest of the night strumming and singing softly to an ever-increasing crowd.  When Steve introduced them, he’d looked Sam up and down, then looked at Steve as if to say “This guy?  Are you fucking kidding me?” and walked away. Sam (who was, by his own admission, just a little bit in love with Steve at that point) took a near-instant disliking to the guy, which intensified as Bucky began his spiral into drug addiction.

Sam blinks and realizes that the audience is cheering all around him. As he looks up, he catches Bucky walking onto the stage, head ducked and face flushing under the attention.  It brings a soft smile to Sam’s face.  As Bucky starts to strum his guitar and the band picks up behind him, Sam is struck by just how much his feelings have changed.

The ire he used to feel has made way for something softer.  It’s surprising.  For all that Sam likes to think that he’s introspective and in touch with who he is, he has to admit that he is unprepared to feel anything other than irritated-as-fuck or turned-on-as-fuck when it comes to Bucky Barnes.

As the show goes on, Bucky comes alive and Sam finds himself unable to take his eyes off of him.  He’s magnetic, and Sam thinks he finally knows what people mean by “it.”  Bucky Barnes most definitely has it  - that elusive star quality that makes people want to watch someone.  Sam can’t take his eyes off of him.

Sam and Steve hang around through both sets and then lend a hand with the equipment at the end of the night.  Bucky is amped – just buzzing right out of his skin, chatting animatedly with his bandmates, a few fans, and Steve and Sam. When Steve finally starts to say his good-byes, Sam looks up to see Bucky staring at him.  Raising his eyebrows in question, he shrugs when Bucky looks away.

Grinning to himself, Sam makes his way over to Bucky.

“What’s up?” Bucky asks.

“You should come over when you’re done,” he says.

Bucky looks up at him from where he’s sitting on a bar stool.  “Yeah?”

Biting his lip, Sam sucks it into his mouth before releasing it.  Bucky’s mouth falls open and Sam smirks.  “Yeah.”

It’s four in the morning when Sam shifts awake as the bed dips beside him.

“Sam,” Bucky says, and then he’s marking Sam’s neck with hot, wet kisses from behind.  “Sammy, you awake?”

Taking a deep breath, Sam turns over and Bucky dives into his embrace.

“Jesus, you taste good,” Bucky mutters, sucking kisses across Sam’s collarbones.

Sam’s still groggy, just starting to come fully awake, as Bucky pushes the t-shirt Sam was wearing up, over his abs before covering the new skin in kisses.  His hands are frantic over Sam’s skin, pinching and grasping, trying to touch Sam everywhere, all at once.

Rising up, Sam finds himself responding to the energy, feels himself starting to get sucked into the pull of it, but something about it is…not quite right.

“Hey,” Sam says, and stills one of Bucky’s hands.

“Been thinking about this for the last three hours,” Bucky says, and grinds his hips down against Sam’s.  “Wanna fuck you.  Or you can fuck me.  Jesus, Sam, you’re wearing too many clothes.”  Bucky tugs at Sam’s underwear, fingers digging in against his hip.

“Buck,” Sam tries, but then Bucky’s sliding his hand into Sam’s shorts and palming his half-hard cock and Sam’s brain shorts out for a moment.  

“Oh,” he says.  “Bucky, that’s -” But then he feels Bucky’s fingers tremble against his skin and that derails everything else.  “Hey,” he says.  “Bucky.”

Bucky’s eyes flick up to Sam’s, then go back to roaming his body.

“Hey,” Sam says again, and cups the side of Bucky’s face with his hand.  Bucky presses into it, and his whole body trembles before he gasps, and presses his head into Sam’s shoulder.

“I got you,” Sam says, and Bucky shivers again, breathing hard.

They lay like that, quiet and still, as Bucky starts to come down from his high.  Sam pets his hair, strokes along his neck and back, and holds him tight.

Sam thinks he could sleep like this, feeling warm and soft, Bucky’s solid weight holding him down.  It’s good.

“’M’sorry,” Bucky whispers from the crook of Sam’s neck.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Sam says, and kisses the side of Bucky’s head.  “Just wanted to be sure you were here with me.”

When Bucky pulls back to meet Sam’s gaze, he’s sheepish.

“Sorry  - I just – it’s hard to come down sometimes.”

“You better now?”

“Almost,” Bucky says, and gives Sam that smirk – the one that says he’s about to miss out on some sleep and won’t be complaining about it a bit.

Leaning up, Sam kisses Bucky, sweet and tender.  He wants to kiss a little soft into this man, then kiss it right back out of him.  Come to think of it, he could probably spend a couple of hours with his mouth on Bucky, the slow, sweet tangle of tongues and the slide of lips.  The way they rut against each other when they know they have the time, just kissing and kissing and _kissing._

It’s good, and they spend some time with their mouths on each other, letting themselves get lost in a rhythm that’s already familiar.

“Shit, Sam,” Bucky gasps, when Sam leans up to suck and bite at Bucky’s neck.

“In me,” Sam says.  “Want you in me.  C’mon.”

“Yeah,” Bucky answers.  “Yeah.  Yes.”

They move too fast after that, with Bucky taking Sam apart with his mouth and his fingers, and Sam responding, opening up in every way.

“Christ,” Bucky swears, as he slides into Sam.  “Christ, the way you feel.”

“Yeah?” Sam groans, pleased with himself.  He loves Bucky’s little astonished moans.  “Yeah,” he says again, as Bucky thrusts deep.  “Fuck, yeah.”

Their mouths are full of skin and whispers and stifled moans.  When Sam feels the way Bucky’s hips snap and stutter, he’s right there, pulling him in tight, heels digging against Bucky’s ass, meeting him thrust for thrust.  By the time he stills, Sam is close – so fucking close – and he whines and tries to get his hand between them, grinding down on Bucky’s cock and trying to get himself off on it.

“Jesus, hold-” Bucky pulls out and slides down Sam’s body, fucking his fingers in deep as he takes Sam into his mouth. In no time at all he’s coming, hips thrusting and hand pressed to his mouth, stifling his cries as his body quakes.

He lies sleepy and sated, exhaustion hitting him in a flood.  “C’mon,” he says, and pulls Bucky toward him.  Bucky makes a perfunctory effort to clean them up, and there’s something happening here, something important, but Sam loses the thread of it as Bucky curls into his side, and Sam slides toward sleep, feeling warm and oh, so sated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? An early chapter? But wait, there's more! Chapter 4 will go up on Friday.
> 
> My inspiration for Sam's sister, Sarah, is the crazy beautiful Issa Rae. If you're not watching Insecure on HBO, what are you even doing with your life?
> 
> If you love Sam like I love Sam, then you'll want to know that the Sam Wilson Birthday Bang starts posting on Saturday, 9/16. Check out their tumblr for more info. I won't be posting next week in deference to the flood of amazing Sam fic (and ART!) that will be posting. 
> 
> Lastly, there is a really nice little Steve/Sam/Bucky fic titled ["Water Off Your Back,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9280475) featuring a touch-starved Bucky. It's lovely.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a party. Sam comes to a realization, and has a Good Day. Then he makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to the loveliest of lovelies, Buffy. Even evacuating out of a hurricane, she's there for my needy, whiney ass. love ya, girl!

 The word "peregrine" means "wanderer" or "pilgrim," and Peregrine Falcons occur all over the world. In North America they breed in open landscapes with cliffs (or skyscrapers) for nest sites. They can be found nesting at elevations up to about 12,000 feet, as well as along rivers and coastlines or in cities, where the local Rock Pigeon populations offer a reliable food supply. - _https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Peregrine_Falcon/lifehistory_

 

 

 

 

Steve walks in and picks up the day’s mail, thumbing through it before pausing and looking at Sam in stunned silence.  

“What’s up, man?” Sam asks, putting down the book he’s been tagging for notes.

Steve holds up an envelope, half sheet sized and thick.  “I didn’t think…” he starts, before tearing it open and then staring again.

“Holy shit!”  

“What is it?”  Sam’s smiling, because he’s never seen Steve this excited about anything, including when he finally got laid after a four month dry spell.

“I got in!  I didn’t think - holy shit, Sam, this is amazing!”

Sam gets up to see what all the fuss is about, and Steve is staring at the pages in his hand like they’re something precious.

“Chicago Art Institute is doing a summer session for illustrators.  It’s an eight-week immersive program where you pair with a writer and create a book.  I asked to pair with a comic writer.  I never thought I’d get in.”

“Hey, congratulations!”  Sam walks over and hugs Steve, who still seems dazed with the news.  “Let’s call some folks up.  We should celebrate,” Sam says.

Like that, they organize a party, with a dozen of their friends coming by, bringing booze and well wishes.  

Sam is thrilled for Steve.  He’s been drawing the same comic character for years, but hasn’t found anyone to write with him, and even Sam can admit that Steve’s storytelling abilities are a little lacking.

As the party mellows, Sam finds himself at the dining room table, playing a rousing round of Dominoes with Scott and Nat (who is blatantly cheating and still losing).  Steve is drunkenly clinging to Clint, telling Clint that he’s a perfect, pure cinnamon roll, but with raisins, and Bucky is playing guitar in the living room, singing low and glancing up at Sam now and again.

It makes Sam feel warm, low in his belly, that Bucky tracks him when they’re both in the same space, but not together.  As Sam watches, Bucky sets a rhythm, tapping against the side of the guitar while he sings, and then he’s looking up at Sam, and singing something about dancing and saying “we don’t talk about it.”

Sam tries to remember the words so that he can look them up later, but he’s several red Solo cups in to whatever it was Scott brewed up, so while the room isn’t spinning, he’s definitely feeling no pain.  It’s not that he’s trying to get drunk.  It’s just – between work and Steve and his school load, Sam’s feeling like he’s got a whole lot to think about and no time to do it.  The only uncomplicated part of his life anymore seems like the time he spends with Bucky.

Who looks really good.

And gives him feelings.  In his pants.

Yeah.

“Dom-in-OH, motherfuckers!” Scott yells, slamming his last tile down, and Sam snaps to.  Nat and Sam both groan, and Scott leans over to wash the bones and set up for a new game.

“So Sam,” Nat says, eyes sparkling with something that usually means trouble.  “Settle a bet for us.”  She looks over at Clint, who studies the liquid in his cup.

“What’s the difference,” she asks, “between a friend with benefits and a fuck buddy.  Or is there one?”

Scott giggles and draws his dominoes.  Sam makes a show of studying the tiles, his hand hovering as he tries to buy himself some time.  Bucky’s stopped playing, and if Sam looks over at him right now, everyone will know everything. He’s not ready for that.

“No difference,” Scott says, lining up his tiles.

“Well there’s some difference,” Nat counters.

“Like the difference between spit and swallow?” Pietro asks, from somewhere over Sam’s shoulder.

“Ow,” he hears a moment later, and assumes Wanda’s done the job of smacking him for the crude comment.

Sam shrugs, noticing Nat still watching him.

“I guess fuck-buddies is just a couple of people helping each other out, but a friend with benefits is someone you, you know, kick it with and shit.”  And shit.  Eloquent, Wilson.  Fucking perfect.

“Hmmm,” Nat drawls.  “So what’s the difference between a friend with benefits and someone you’re dating?”

Again, he looks around the table, but everyone there is looking at him, waiting for his response.

Sam shrugs.  “The fuck should I know?  Sometimes the people you’re fucking are the people you’re dating, and sometimes they’re just the people you’re fucking.  Why do you care what I think?”

Shrugging, Nat smiles at the board and lays down a double-five.  “Just wondering.  That’s ten to me, Scott,” she says, nodding at the score card.  Sam gets up a few minutes later under the guise of using the bathroom.  When he looks over, Steve and Bucky are deep in conversation, and Sam heaves a sigh of relief.

That got _weird_.

It’s not nighttime, but it’s not morning yet either, when Sam finally decides it’s time to pass out.  Clint is stretched out on the couch, and Nat is stretched out on Clint.  Sam’s pretty sure that’s new.  It helps make sense of their earlier conversation, though. He steps over Scott, who’s sleeping on the floor, and catches himself against the wall before he falls.

Steve stumbled off to bed a while ago, and Sam has no idea where Bucky got off to.  He’s left a guitar in the living room though, so Sam hopes he’s still around and awake.  Sam’s probably too drunk to come, but getting Bucky’s dick inside of him sounds like fucking heaven.

When he opens the door to his room, he finds a familiar lump under the blankets.

“Bucky,” Sam whispers.  “You ‘wake?”

Bucky sighs, then turns over.  “Thought you’d never come to bed.  What time is it?”

“’S’late,” Sam says.  “It’s sooo late.  Are you naked?  We should be naked.”  Sam struggles with his shirt and tips over as he shucks his jeans.  The dresser catches his fall and then Bucky is there, an arm wrapped around Sam’s waist, pulling him in close.

“You’re a mess, Wilson,” Bucky says.  “No hope of getting laid now.”

“C’mon,” Sam slurs, then wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck.  “Wan’ you to fuck me.  Saw you lookin’ at me, know you wanna fuck me.”

Sam dives in for a kiss that’s more tongue and spit than strictly necessary – or pleasant.

“Come on, buddy,” Bucky says, guiding Sam to the bed.  “You are going to regret the fuck out of this in the morning.”

Sam falls back onto the pillows and lets out a whine when Bucky leaves the room.

Closing his eyes, Sam kicks a leg out when the room starts to spin a little.  He wants Bucky back.   _Bucky with the good hair,_ he giggles to himself.  _Fucking pretty.  Bucky Bucky Bucky._

“I’m right here,” Bucky says, and Sam opens his eyes.  

“Bucky.”

“Yep, apparently with the good hair.  Come on, sweetheart, take these,” Bucky says, and passes a couple of pills to Sam.  “These should help ward off the worst of the hangover.”

“Don’ wan’ hangover,” Sam says.  “Jus’ wan’ you.”

“Christ you’re lit.  Come on Sam, you get these down, now.”

Sam swallows the pills and drinks some of the water, but halfway through the glass, he pushes it back to Bucky and rests his nose in the crook of Bucky’s neck.

“We should have sex right now,” Sam says.  “You should get your dick in me.  I’s the best idea ever.”

Bucky huffs a laugh.  “Not on your life, pal.  Come on, lay back down.”

Sam lays back but clings to Bucky as he goes, pulling Bucky down with him.  “C’mon,” Sam says.  “C’mon.”

Bucky wriggles away from Sam, gets him under the covers and then slides in next to him.  He pulls Sam across his chest and Sam snuggles in, throwing an arm and leg over him.  “Baby,” he says, and presses a kiss to the side of Bucky’s neck.  “Baby,” he says, and passes out.

.

The next morning, Sam wakes up alone and regrets being born down to his toes.  He throws on sweats and a t-shirt before padding to the kitchen for coffee out of habit.  He gets one sip down before he’s running for the bathroom to throw up.  After a long time sitting down in the shower and letting the water just wash over him, Sam decides to call it a day and goes back to bed.

As he lays down, he notices the glass of water and the two aspirin by his bedside.   _Bucky Barnes,_ _I love you_ , he thinks, and swallows down the pills.

Searching his memory, he finds a faint recollection of Bucky rebuffing his advances while wrestling a very drunk and horny Sam into bed.  Face flaring with shame, Sam is touched nonetheless.  He wouldn’t have regretted a drunk fuck, but it’s nice to be taken care of.

Climbing back into bed, he snuggles down into the pillow, noticing that he can smell Bucky on it, and falls asleep with a soft smile on his face.

Sam wakes up late enough that he can hardly call it morning.  He stretches and lets the memories of last night and this morning wash over him, then freezes.

 _No,_ he thinks.   _No, no, no._

Sam looks at the pillow next to his, rolls over and presses his face to it, breathing deep.  His stomach swoops and his heart does that warm, double-beat thing in his chest.

“Fuuuuuuuck.”  Sam rolls back over, groans at the ceiling, the squeezes his eyes shut and searches himself one more time, but it’s no use.

Sam is in love with Bucky fucking Barnes.

.

The realization that he’s in love with Bucky makes everything so much worse.  He’s awkward now, desperately hoping that Bucky won’t notice, trying so hard to stay himself, so that he doesn’t scare Bucky off.  It feels like the words are always on the tip of his tongue, and he can’t – he _can’t_ – say them.  Instead they end up lodged in his throat, climbing back up like so much bile until Sam feels like he’s choking on them.

The next time Bucky comes over, Sam’s careful with himself and with Bucky.  Careful not to touch too much, to kiss too much.  Careful with the words coming out of his mouth, afraid he’s going to say something that will tip Bucky off to just how one-sided this arrangement has become.

He’s running hot and cold, and it’s a form of self-torture, he knows, because the more time he spends around Bucky, the more he _wants_ Bucky.  He’s got Bucky in his bed, but what he wants is Bucky in his life.  He wants a life.  With Bucky.  He wants sleepy Sunday mornings with pancakes and eggs and lazy blow jobs in the shower.  He wants Bucky’s stupid face looking up at him when he walks in the door, wants to see it catch in surprise just before he smiles.  He wants those smiles, every one of them.

He’s making things weird, he knows that.  He’s making it weird with the way he nuzzles up against Bucky, the way his fingers press a little too hard, his hands holding a little too tight.  He tries for light and casual, but sometimes he can’t stop himself – he pours his heart into his kisses, in the way that he gives his body up to Bucky and the way he holds his tongue damn near always.

Now when Bucky comes to hang out with Steve, Sam finds himself either awkwardly hovering at the edges of their conversations or disappearing altogether, unable to find his equilibrium in the push and pull of what he wants and what he can have.

He thinks about it sometimes, saying something like ‘Hey, maybe we should try going on a date,’ or even just ‘I like waking up next to you.’  Instead, he finds himself goading Bucky, pushing him away even as his fingers grip tighter.

“Gonna cry when you find someone else to fuck,” Sam says.  “Your dick is pretty much perfect.”  Or, “I’d ask you to stay, but I’ve still got homework.”  Once it was "we're both seeing other people, right?"  His half-assed way of asking a question he doesn't want an answer to.

"I'd like to be seeing my dick in your mouth," was the reply he got.  It was enough.

He does and says a dozen stupid things just trying to get some kind of reaction out of Bucky, but nothing comes. There was a moment, once, when he hadn’t realized Bucky was over.  Sam went to the kitchen for some water while he was studying in his room and hear voices low and soft in the living room.  When he peers around the corner, he sees Steve with an arm around a visibly upset Bucky.

“I just wish I could –“ and then he spots Sam, and stops.  Steve turns, looks over his shoulder, and then gives Bucky’s shoulder a squeeze.

“You okay?” Sam asks.

“Fine, Sam,” Steve answers.  “Can you just…give us some space?”

“Yeah, man.  Sorry.”  He can see that he’s not needed.  Not wanted.  It twists something hard in his gut that Bucky won’t come to him.

Two nights later, Sam’s in Bucky’s bed, the two of them tearing off each other’s clothes, trying to get closer, faster.

“You know,” Sam starts, then quiets as Bucky sticks his tongue in Sam’s mouth.

“You know,” he tries again, pulling back.  “You know you can talk to me, right?  You okay?”

Bucky stops and stares at Sam for a moment, and Sam feels like he’s being seen for maybe the first time ever.

Then Bucky blinks.  “You offering your professional services?”

For some reason it stings, and Sam feels himself close down.  He frowns and looks away.

“Nothing to worry about, man,” Bucky says, and unbuckles Sam’s belt.  “Not your problem, anyway,” he says, and then he has his mouth on Sam’s dick, and Sam loses his higher brain function for the next two hours.

The worst part is that he can’t even talk to Steve about it, and Sam’s really not close enough with any of the other guys to be comfortable spilling his guts that way. So he keeps doing what he’s been doing.  Not like this is new territory.  He’s been down this road before.

Sam spent the better part of his teenage years in love with his best friend.  It was hopeless from the beginning, and he knew that.  About the time that Riley started noticing girls, Sam started noticing Riley.  It was hard not to – his best friend was tall, with dark blond hair, and eyes the color of new denim.

Past the looks though, Riley was just a good guy.  He was smart and funny, and was kind to Sam’s sister, Sarah.  When Riley tried out for the football team, Sam joined him, and the two spent their days running drills and working out, each of them packing on muscle to go with the growth spurts that never seemed to stop coming.  They lived in each other’s pockets, and most nights when Sam went to sleep, Riley was right there beside him.

So he had a front row seat for Riley’s first crush.  His first kiss and his first girlfriend.  Sam listened and made the right noises when Riley waxed rhapsodic about Jill, about Kerri and about Becca-Lynn.  Sam mustered up a couple of double dates, and managing to go to prom, homecoming (he and Riley made court, but neither was crowned king), and Winter Formal.  When Riley lost his virginity junior year, Sam was the one who stopped at the free clinic for the condoms, and he was the one who promised Riley it was going to be great, his voice a low whisper in the dark.

And through it all, Sam wanted.  He’d fall asleep next to Riley thinking, I love him.  He’d wake up and see Riley’s bright smile, hair rumpled with sleep, and think, I love him.  Taking a hit on the football field, slow dancing with a pretty girl, getting a C- on his calculus exam, and Sam would think, I love him.

So he was familiar with pining, with wanting.  At the time, Sam got himself through it thinking that at least it couldn’t get any worse.  Even though his first love felt like a forever kind of thing, Sam knew enough to know that it was unlikely.  He knew that the two of them might grow apart one day, that maybe one of them would fall in love for real, get the kind of love his folks had, or maybe time and distance, college and careers would prove too much for even their friendship to survive.  Either way, Sam knew that eventually, he would get over being in love with his best friend.  That this would be the worst of it.

He had no idea how much worse it could be.

He had no idea how much it could hurt to want someone who was right there in your arms.  What it felt like to be lonely, with the person you love sleeping right by your side.  How he would ache with it. Hurt with it.

Sam lays in bed, with Bucky breathing soft and even beside him.  In the half-light of the moon, Sam can see the few days’ scruff that’s bloomed across Bucky’s cheeks and jaw.  He squirms a little, feeling the beard burn between his legs, where Bucky’d spent what felt like an hour bringing Sam right to the edge, before pulling him back, again and again.  Part of Sam wants to cling to that, wants to say, see?  He wouldn’t do these things if he didn’t feel this too.

But he knows better.

He knows that the morning will come and Bucky will be out of his bed without so much as a ‘later, loser,’ let alone the soft kisses that Sam craves.

Sighing, Sam shifts in the bed.  Bucky snuffles in his sleep, burrowing up onto Sam’s chest, one leg thrown over Sam’s thigh, his hand clutching Sam’s shoulder.  His brow is furrowed, so Sam reaches over, rubs his thumb against the crease until it eases away.

“Shh,” he says, then kisses the top of Bucky’s head.  Bucky settles and Sam closes his eyes and tries for sleep.  It comes easier than he thought it would.  All he has to do is pretend that this is real: That Bucky Barnes loves him back, and that when he wakes up, it will be to Bucky’s sweet kisses, Bucky’s soft smile.   That he’ll come home from work to see Bucky sitting on the edge of their bed, picking out a song on his guitar and humming the melody under his breath.  He doesn’t want much, he thinks.  Just the whole wide world.

.

Sam finishes his classes for the day and loads up his backpack before heading to the VA for his shift.  He’d kill for a cup of coffee and maybe a burger, but Tuesdays are his busy days, so he’s gotta hustle if he’s going to be on time.

He drops his backpack in the office he shares with America and Ash, the other two interns.  It’s cramped - the desk piled high with notes that need to be transcribed and reports that need to be filed.  If the three of them are there at the same time, there isn’t even room to turn around, but they’ve worked out a system so that any one of them can pick up where the other leaves off.  

Sam stows his pack and picks up the blue files for today’s group session.  He’s got about fifteen minutes, and if he hurries, he can grab an energy drink to down while he reads over his notes from last week’s session.  He’s just about to head down to the vending machines when America walks in, a white take-out bag in her hand.

“America’s delivery service,” she says, a cocky smirk on her lips.  She’s young, Latina, and gorgeous, with a full figure and a smile that matches her curves.  If Sam wasn’t a solid ten years older than her, he could have seen wanting to ask her out.  Her smile alone could light up half the state.

Sam breathes deep, the tangy, rich smell of Mexican food hitting his nose.  His mouth waters as he processes the situation.  

“Marta’s?” he asks, because Marta’s La Taqueria Especial is one of the best restaurants he’s even eaten at, even if it is a five-table hole in the wall, cash-only dive that almost no one’s ever heard of.  The place is a legend around the VA.

America nods and smiles, handing Sam a styrofoam container with tamales, rice and beans, and horchata big enough to make Leslie Knope cry.

“I think I love you,” Sam says, opening the lid to the tamales.

“If only that did it for me,” she answers, before digging into a burrito the size of her head.

America’s gay, and open about it, and Sam sure doesn’t have a problem with that.  The two of them bonded once when they’d realized they’d both dated the same, slightly psychotic woman the previous summer, and had been buddies ever since. When he gets a wild hair and makes one his mom’s specialties - her apple rum cake, or say, her strawberry rhubarb pie, Sam always saves America a slice.  In return, she often brings Sam lunch on his busy days.  They both think it’s a fair trade.

Scarfing down his tamales, Sam leaves with a muffled than you, clutching his horchata.  

“Swallow before you speak, Sam,” she calls after his receding back.  “No one wants to see your ABC tamales.”

He makes a noise and waves as he goes, America’s laughter chasing him down the hall.

Two hours later, he’s finished with group and gets his notes together for transcription into the mandated report format.  The horchata is a nothing more than a milky bit of water at the bottom of the cup, and Sam’s torn between wanting to walk down to the coffee shop in the lobby for a much-needed boost, or checking in with Maria first.  

His responsibilities win, as usual, and he finds himself debriefing with Maria for over an hour.  It’s not until his fourth yawn that Maria scolds him.

“What’s going on with you, Wilson?”

Sam snaps to attention, the hard tone in Maria’s voice unexpected.

“Sorry, boss.  It’s been a long day.”

“Pop quiz:  What’s the number one cause for attrition in first through fifth year public sector social workers?”

Chagrinned, Sam answer “Burn out.”

Maria nods.  “You’re one of the best interns I’ve had in years.  You have a passion for this work, Sam, and it shows in everything you do here.  Make sure you’re taking time to take care of yourself, too.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Maria smirks.  Sam’s never gotten out of her whether she’s former military or not.  “I can hold my own,” is all she’s said when he’s asked.  “That’s all you need to know.”

“Get out of here,” she says.  “Get some coffee and have those reports in by Friday.  Got it?”  Sam nods and makes his way to the first floor coffee cart.  Along the way, he makes time to talk to Peter, stops in to say hi to Wade Wilson, everyone’s favorite patient, and returns a text to Steve about dinner plans ( _Class until 10_ , he reminds Steve.   _Tomorrow?_ )  He grabs a Soy Dulce de Leche latte for America, and then settles in for report writing for the rest of the afternoon. According to Maria, he’s going to be spending a substantial part of his life writing case reports.  Figures he’d do just as well to get the practice while he can.

Sam loves his work at the VA.  The first time he’d walked into the building, breathing in the institutional atmosphere with it’s musty halls and hospital smells, familiar from his days in the Air Force, he’d felt at home.  Maria’s already told him she doesn’t have the budget to keep him on as staff once he graduates and his internship ends, but he figures it can’t hurt to keep volunteering, hoping that something opens up.

There are a lot of career paths for a social worker in New York, but he knows he can’t work with children or the elderly – he can’t see that kind of abuse day in and day out – and he has no desire to go private sector.  He guesses he’ll end up on staff at a hospital, and if he’s lucky, a VA position will open up within a year or two.

When he lets himself think about it too much, the prospect of graduating at the end of the year gives him cold sweats.  Lucky for Sam, he’s a master of denial, when he wants to be.

He’s going to miss school.  He’s always been smart, and school comes easy to him.  It’s one place that he knows he’s always successful.  He was surprised when one of his professors approached him about leading a peer mentoring session, and even more surprised by how much he’d enjoyed it.

After class that night, the same professor holds Sam back after class.

“You wanted to see me, Professor Dowd?  Is there a problem?”

Professor Dowd is one of Sam’s favorites.  She’s in her early fifties by Sam’s guesstimate, and given to wearing oversized knit sweaters that look decades old, with neat jeans and very comfortable looking shoes.  She has pink skin and silver hair that she wears short and spikey, with red-framed eyeglasses that make her eyes look much larger than they probably are.  She stands at least a foot shorter than Sam, and he finds himself crouching a bit when he walks with her.

“I understand you’re interning over at the VA for Maria Hill, is that right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam answers, his years of indoctrination both from his father and his C.O. showing up in his speech.

“And how’s that going?”

Sam nods.  “It’s good.  I feel like I’m getting some great experience there.  I think being a combat vet helps.”

“You know you’re doing a fine job with the peer group.  Those kids, they need someone like you, someone they can relate to.  They look up to you Sam.”

Sam nods, not sure where she’s going with this.  “I’ve applied for a small grant for next Academic year.  I want to set up peer-mentoring groups that will follow these students out of the classroom and into their first few years of work.  I think it might make a difference for some of those who are struggling professionally.”

“That sounds great, Professor Dowd,’ Sam answers, still unsure where this is going.

“Glad you think so.  I wrote in a part-time position to help coordinate the program.  It’ll only be thirty hours a week, and there’ll be quite a bit of grunt work.  You’ll have to get out there and sell the program, get people signed up, and then track progress.  You’ll be making phone calls, copies, whatever else it takes.  Are you interested?”

And Sam, Sam can’t believe it.  Not even graduated yet and he’s already got a job offer.  It’s  - it’s more than he could have asked for.  By a mile.

“Now don’t say anything,” she carries on.  “I’ll email you the proposal so that you can see just what you’d be in for, but if the grant is funded, you’re my first choice.”

“Thank you,” Sam says, stopping and staring at Professor Dowd.  “Thank you so much.  I really appreciate the offer, your faith in me.”

She stops, smiles up at him.  “You’ve earned it, Sam.  Now walk me to the subway.  It’s late and my mace is at the bottom of my bag again.”

Chuckling, Sam does just that, the two of them making small talk about the Yankees and the Mets, and their coming summer plans. On the train ride home, he thinks about what his life might look like in a year, working for Professor Dowd, probably still living with Steve, maybe volunteering at the VA?

His thoughts light on Bucky; it’s the one thing he can’t get a clear picture on.  When he thinks about what he wants for himself, for his future, the images shine true: he wants a nice apartment, somewhere in the city, not too far from Sarah.  He wants to work at the VA and help people, carry on the legacy of his mother and father both.  And he wants someone to come home to, someone who will make him laugh, make him a bath, make him a sandwich when he’s had a rough day.  He wants someone he can be sweet to in turn.  He wants to bring home little surprises, fresh baked things on the way home from his run, take them on weekends away upstate.  He wants someone he can spoil with his love.

And Bucky Barnes just isn’t that kind of guy.

By the time Sam crawls into bed that night, his exhaustion is bone deep.  Still, when Bucky texts him just as he’s about to fall asleep, Sam tells him to come through.

When Sam told Bucky to come over, it was because he was all lit up and high on the idea of having an actual paying job doing work he values for someone he admires.  It was because he wanted to share his good news with someone.  He wanted smiling kisses, and maybe to dream a little about the future.

What he got was Bucky walking in and all but assaulting him with his mouth.  Sam heard a button pop off of his shirt as Bucky shoved it up, trying to get his hands on Sam’s skin.  Not even lying, it feels good to be wanted like this.

Sam tries to catch a breath between Bucky’s frantic kisses and Bucky’s frantic hands.

“Hello to you, too,” Sam says, in too good a mood to care about having to sew his buttons back on.

Bucky’s got his face in the curve of Sam’s neck and his fingers digging in Sam’s ass, pulling him in to grind.  He crowds up against Sam, backing him up to the closed bedroom door, and Sam hits it with a soft thud.

“Damn, Barnes, where’s the fire?” Sam asks, trying to catch a breath as Bucky begins kissing across Sam’s collarbones.

Drawing back, Bucky stares at Sam, and Sam feels caught out at…something. He feels naked, there, like Bucky’s reading his mind, seeing all of his secrets.  Bucky looks like he’s working his way up to saying something, and you know what?  No.  Sam doesn’t want to know.  It’s been a great day and he wants to top it off with some good sex.  He doesn’t want to hear anything from Bucky that might bring him down.

“I didn’t say stop,” Sam says, and goes for Bucky’s mouth.  This time the kiss is pushy on Sam’s part, but it doesn’t take long to get Bucky back on script.

Turning them, Sam pushes Bucky up against the door, then slides to his knees.  He looks up at Bucky and smirks before pulling down Bucky’s pants and taking his thickening cock into his mouth.  He loves doing this – taking Bucky apart with his lips and tongue and teeth.

“Jesus, Sam,” Bucky pants above him.  Bucky’s hard and slick in his mouth, thighs tensing as he holds himself back from thrusting.  He rests a hand against Sam’s cheek, stroking along Sam’s cheekbone and he leans into it a moment before getting back to work.  He loves the feel of Bucky hard in his mouth, the skin slick with spit, tonguing his slit and tasting his precum.  Loves rolling Bucky’s balls in his hand as the blunt head of his cock pushes against the back of Sam’s throat.  Sam loves the power of it, the gift of it.  He’s always liked taking care of people, and that impulse doesn’t change when his clothes come off.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky whispers, and Sam loves that too.

Sam pulls back and looks up, and Bucky looks so blissed out, a tiny crinkle of want between his eyes and his mouth open.  He looks down at Sam and strokes a hand against his cheek again.

“Gonna have to stop that if you want to ride my cock tonight,” Bucky says.

Quirking a brow, Sam looks up at him.  “What makes you think I want that?”

Leaning down, Bucky draws Sam up by his armpits.  “Think I can't tell when you're in a good mood?  You like gettin' on your knees for me, sweetheart, and then you like ride my cock when you’re in a mood like this.  I worked a double today so I definitely don’t got a round two in me, so if you want me to fuck you,” Bucky pauses and slides his tongue into Sam’s mouth, kissing his deep and hot.  “You’re gonna have to stop that.”

Sam shudders, but backs up toward the bed, stripping off his clothes.  “Alright, then,” he says, pulling Bucky down with him.  He reaches for the nightstand and the lube, but Bucky takes it from him and pushes him down on the pillows.

“What about you?” Bucky asks.  “You got a round two in you?”

Sam’s eyes roll back in his head as Bucky starts to work him over with thick fingers and a soft mouth.  Later, when he’s rolling his hips and rising and falling, taking Bucky in deeper and deeper, he’ll reach out and take Bucky’s hands in his.  They’ll catch each other’s eyes, and for a couple of long minutes, Sam will feel seen.   _This is what it could be like,_ he’ll think.   _Having him love me back._  The thought, the feeling, is so sharp – so painful – that he’ll have to close his eyes against the burn of it.  He’ll fall asleep feeling terrified, and wake up the same way.

.

“Christ, you’re a bed hog,” Bucky says, shrugging into the button-up that Sam stripped off of him the night before.

“Man, you open your mouth to do anything but whine?”

“You weren’t complaining when I opened it for your dick last night.”

“Hrmph.”  Sam makes a face but looks away.  It’s getting harder and harder to let Bucky go in the mornings.  He’s got to do something about it, and he knows if he doesn’t do it now, he never will, and it will be Riley, all over again.  It will be Steve, all over again.  He can’t live his entire life loving people who can’t love him back.  He won’t.

“Hey, head’s up, I’m not going to be around tonight,” he says, and Bucky stops and looks at him.  Blinks.  In the weeks they’ve been doing this, neither of them has seen fit to inform the other of their schedule like that.

“What, you got a date?”

“Mmhmm.”  He doesn’t have it in him to look at Bucky.  Not after telling that big of a lie.

Then Bucky makes a scoffing noise and Sam turns to look at him.  Bucky’s got his eyes squinted and his mouth in a moue of anger.

“I know you’re not seriously mad right now.”  The words are out of Sam’s mouth before he can regret saying it.  Yeah.  Asshole's pissed off that Sam’s not going to be around to fuck whenever his dick gets hard.

He watches as something passes across Bucky’s face, some kind of contempt he thinks, before everything melts away and he’s staring at Sam, expressionless.

“Nah.  I mean, this is just sex, right?  You don’t – really owe me anything.”

Nodding, Sam looks up in time to see Bucky snag his shoes, already moving toward the door.  “See ya around, _buddy,_ ” he calls over his shoulder, and a moment later, Sam hears the sharp thud of the front door closing.

Sam sits down hard on his bed, leans over and puts his head in his hands.

Almost every part of him wants to call Bucky back, tell him it was all a lie.  

He doesn’t though.  There’s only so much pining one man can do in his lifetime, Sam thinks.  

He has no idea how wrong he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been mad about [this album by Michael Kiwanuka.](https://open.spotify.com/album/0qxsfpy2VU0i4eDR9RTaAU) It's modern English soul and has really set the tone for a lot of scenes in this fic. 
> 
> You guys! The Sam Wilson Birthday Bang starts posting tomorrow! I am spending the whole weekend reading fic! :D 
> 
> Next chapter posts 9/27. I'm writing the final scenes for this fic, so *if* I finish, and Buf can beta, I'll post on an accelerated schedule. At some point, we'll get an idea of what Bucky's thinking.
> 
> There's this gorgeous series by onvavoir titled [ "From Eden." ](http://archiveofourown.org/series/520351%22) It's set in Wakanda, has a skosh of Steve/Sam but is Sam/Bucky and is *gorgeous.* (There's a little het as well (Steve and Nakia (who is AMAZING!), but is avoidable if you don't read that sort of thing.) It's criminal how few reviews this series has, given how absolutely gorgeous it is. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Buffyscribbles, who is beta and friend and pretty much amazing. She beta'd through a hurricane guys. I love her. <3

It’s been three full weeks without seeing Bucky, or calling him.  His nerves are strung tight.  He’s jacked it more times than he can count, remembering Bucky’s body, his mouth, the lay of his lashes against his cheek when he sleeps.  Sam knows he’s fucked, but he also knows distance is the only thing for it.

He’s lost in his own head, thinking about Bucky, when his sister calls.

“Hey, Sarah.”

“Hey, big brother.  How’re you doing?”

He sighs because he’s doing shitty, and Sarah’s not exactly someone he can talk to. “Doing okay.  Just finished midterms.  How about you?”

Sarah sighs too, and Sam wonders if everything is alright with her.  He remembers her when they were kids, her watching him with big brown eyes, and that smile that could light up the whole world when she was happy.  Her sitting quiet as their mom braided her hair, or Sarah sneaking into Sam’s room during a storm, hiding under his covers until it passed.  It made him feel powerful and protective, all at once.

He misses her, how easy it used to be, before everyone grew up and moved on.  Things changed a little when Riley moved in – sharing a room with his best friend and biggest crush kind of eclipsed everything else in Sam’s world for a while there.  Then he turned around and Sarah was wearing high heels and talking about some kid named Amari and Sam, what do you mean you’re not applying to Howard?

And then their father died, and then Sam enlisted, and then Mama died and then…and then nothing was the same.

“I’m okay,” she finally says.  “Missing my husband and Jody’s got the flu.”

“He’s okay though?”  Sam thinks of that warm baby in his arms and goes protective all over again.

“He’s fine, just miserable.”

“Where’s John?  You guys okay?”

“Yeah, Sam, we’re fine.  John’s got meetings with a couple of branches upstate is all.  You know he doesn’t like being on the road more than he has to.  He’s staying over a few nights is all.”

And yeah, Sam gets _that._

“Hey,” she says, breaking the awkward silence.  “So I don’t really know your schedule, but I’m having a little party here at the house for John’s birthday next week.  It’s Saturday, probably going to go half the night, but if you’re not busy, maybe you want to come by?”

Sam takes a deep breath.  “I don’t know, Sarah.  I’m supposed to go see a friend’s band play.”  It’s not a lie.  He is supposed to go with Steve to see Bucky’s band.  He’d been looking for a way out of it, but he’d had the feeling that Steve was up to speed on the change between Sam and Bucky, and the invitation felt like more of a challenge.  He promised Steve that what happened between him and Bucky wouldn’t change anything, and he is going to keep that promise.

“Oh,” she says, and he catches the sadness in her voice. “Yeah, okay.  Well, maybe I’ll see you for dinner soon, then.”

“Yeah, I’ll try.  No promises though, okay?”

“Sure,” she says, and there’s false brightness in her voice.  Sam feels bad about that.  What is he supposed to do though?  He’s not the man she wants him to be.

“Hey, Sam.  Take care of yourself, okay?” The sadness in her voice breaks his damn heart.

“Yeah.  You too, Sar.”

.

The ”club” that Bucky’s playing at is more of a bar with a tiny stage shoved into one corner.  It’s definitely not the biggest place he’s played, but sitting up there on stage, he looks like he’s commanding an audience of thousands.

Sam drinks his old-fashioned quick, then orders another.  The bar has a nice, old-school vibe going for it.  There’s artwork from local artists all over the walls, a granite bar top, and what looks to be the original wood bar, chair rails, and sleek, dark wood wainscoting.  The entire place calls to mind a speakeasy from the 30’s, and Sam smiles to himself, caught up in the romance of it.

Or maybe he’s caught up in the romance of his entire situation.  He’s missed Bucky, and not just the sex.  He caught himself a week ago pulling out his phone to text a funny meme to Bucky, and then closing it up again when he remembered they weren’t like that anymore.

When he’d decided to break things off, he knew it was for the best.  Since then, though, he’s been wondering whether or not that was true.  Like idiots, they’d never explicitly talked about what they were doing.  Bucky’d never outright said that he was only interested in sex.  With a little distance, Sam wonders if maybe he’d read into the situation.  Had he projected his own fears onto Bucky?  Made assumptions based on those fears?  Maybe created a self-fulfilling prophesy?

Sam hates to think that he’s capable of self-sabotaging at that level, but something about it rings true.  When the Air Force said we need a volunteer to test out our experimental jet pack, and oh yeah, it might explode your ass when you turn it on, Sam was the first to raise his hand.

The idea of opening himself up for another person though, saying hey, here’s this softest part of me, please take care of it?  

That thought terrifies him.

What if, though?  What if?

Making his way over to the small table that Steve secured for them when they arrived, Sam sets down his drink and the beer he bought for Steve.  The table is close to the stage, but far enough back that they won’t get slammed by the speaker.  When Bucky takes the stage, the crowd cheers.  An animated group of girls in the back all but swoon as he strums the first few notes of the first song, and Bucky husks his way through a Leonard Cohen standard.

He comes alive on the stage – there’s no denying it.  The shine coming off of him takes Sam’s breath away.  Bucky’s animated and smiling, closing his eyes while he holds a note, his fingers flying over the strings, and Sam is so – he is so caught up in this man.

Bucky eases one song into the next, the crowd cheering between each song, and the back-up band are all there, smiles glowing.  Sam coughs a laugh when the band launches into a Biz Markie cover that Sam hasn’t heard in a _day._  It’s some kind of mash up though, because as Sam watches Wanda’s elegant fingers pluck at her bass, Bucky croons out “he called me baby, baby, baby, all night long,” and Sam’s heart stops.  

Watching Bucky, Sam tries to catch his eye.  Is he looking over at Sam?  It’s impossible to tell with the lights glaring overhead.  Sam flushes with warmth.

Wanda comes in on backup, and Bucky is grinning something fierce.  Sam’s got a soft smile on his face, too.  He wants this, he realizes.  He wants Bucky to want him this way, wants to listen to Bucky sing his songs, and know that Bucky’s singing for him.

The rest of the set goes on like that: Bucky sings his songs and Sam watches with an ever-increasing fondness, softness.  Warmth.  Maybe he can have this.  Maybe he can _let_ himself.

When the show ends, Sam makes his way down the hallway, past the restrooms, toward the private patio in the back.  It’s where the band goes to cool off after the show, letting the late spring air wash over them, cooling their skin from the heat of the stage lights and crowd.

Searching out Bucky, Sam gives a quick hug to Wanda and high-fives her brother, Pietro.  Wanda’s smooth backing vocals and Pietro’s energetic drumming are a big reason the band is doing so well these days.

Sam turns the corner to the side of the patio and stops dead.

Bucky is there, gleaming with sweat in the orange glow of the sodium lights.  There’s a man, tall, tan, with silver hair, and he’s got his hand cupped around the back of Bucky’s neck.  Sam can see from where he’s standing that the man is attractive.  He must have been downright gorgeous when he was younger.  Sam watches as the man says something that has Bucky smiling, looking shy and flushed and _happy_.  The man says something else, and Bucky grins, wrapping his arms around the man, face radiant.

Oh.

It hits Sam in the stomach hard.

Oh.

Feeling sick, Sam turns around and leaves.  He shoots Steve a text saying he isn’t feeling well, and walks.  

Wandering the streets of Brooklyn, Sam’s head spins.  How did he read this so wrong?  How could he have been so stupid?

He shakes his head at himself, feeling like such a fool.  Of course Bucky didn’t want him like that.  Of course not.

It’s just…it’s just that he’d let himself dream is all.  Think that maybe that bright, shiny happiness that he sees all around him could be his too.  There in the cool Brooklyn streets, he lends himself to the worst of his thoughts.  That he’ll be relegated to a life of standing on the edges of other people’s happiness.  That he really will be alone, never finding someone of his own.  That no one will ever find anything about him to love.

He follows the twists and turns of the streets in time with his thoughts.  He wants to believe he’s meant for something better.  That somewhere out there, someone who is beautiful from the inside out will love him just as he is.  

Until then, all he can try to be a better man.  Try harder.  Deserve it.  He’s just not ready yet, he guesses.  Someday he will be, though.  Someday someone’s gonna see him shine.

By the time he gets home, he’s doubled down on his resolve to the best goddamned social worker that New York City has ever seen.  He knows he’s smart, and he’s good with the clients.  He can help people, and maybe that’s what he’s here for.

It’s times like these that he feels, profoundly, his loss of faith.  He’d watched Riley fall, completed their mission, and went back for the body.  There in a hot, dirty tent, Sam mourned.  He cried for his friend, for the bright, beautiful man that Riley had become, and raged that no one would ever see him shine again.

As he prayed over his friend he thought, _damn you, God.  God_ damn _you._  It made bile rise in his throat to think it, but he wouldn’t take it back. Couldn’t.

Now, he knows what his father would say to him.  Maybe _The Lord is a refuge for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble._ Or even, _Those who seek the Lord lack no good thing._

He can’t believe it though.  He knows better.  God is a fairytale, and Sam is grown; he just can’t believe.

By the time he gets home it’s late.  Or early.  The promise of the sunrise is bleeding across the horizon, purpling the sky.  Falling into bed, Sam thinks it will take him all night to fall asleep.  Instead, he drops off fast and dreams of nothing at all.

The next morning the phone rings and Sam can’t help but be surprised by the name that pops up on his display.

“Hey man, everything alright?”  The worry is clear in his voice and that’s fine.  He and Sarah’s husband, John, never really became friends.  It’s not that Sam dislikes the guy - he doesn’t.  But the distance between him and Sarah translated into a distance between him and John.

“What?  Yeah, yeah, everything’s good.”

“Jody? Sarah?  They’re fine?”

“Yeah.  Sorry, man, didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Nah, it’s okay.  So what’s up?”

“You cool to talk for a few minutes?”

“Sure,” Sam says, his interest piqued.  

“It’s about Sarah.  She’s been so upset -”

Sam coughs up a derisive laugh.

“I know, just - just hear me out,” John says.  “Your sister, she misses you.  Since that last time you visited, she can’t stop blaming herself for driving you away.  And every time the baby says your name -”

“What?” Sam’s winded at that.  Holding Jody in his arms felt like...like promise.  Like a future where Sam gets some of the things he might need to get whole with himself.  Like a hole being filled in.

John chuckles.  “Boy’s toddling around the house saying “Am-am,” falling on his butt every other step.  But every time he says your name, Sarah hurts with it.”

Sam lets go of a heavy sigh.  “Come on, man.  You know I’d never hurt Sarah on purpose.”

“I know.  And I know she probably said some things -”

It all comes back to Sam then, the hurt and anger.  The way she’s taking sides _against_ him.  Isn’t she supposed to love him no matter what?

But beyond that, if Sarah can’t see her way clear to loving him, what’s that mean about his folks?  Sam hadn’t fully come to terms with his sexuality until after they both were gone.  He’d known he liked boys and girls, but by the time he was ready to say it out loud, Paul and Darlene Wilson both were gone. Would they have loved him anyway?  It’s a question buried so deep inside of his heart, so raw and tender, that any attempts he makes at looking at it send him reeling.

“She did,” Sam says.  “And I hear you.  I know you’re worried for her.  But I can’t live my life the way she wants.  I can’t live that lie for her.”

Sam listens as John takes a deep, heavy breath, and lets it out.  “I know that, man.  I’m not asking that.  Believe it or not, I’m on your side with this, and I’ve been working on her.  When your mother passed, the church was there for her.  I know you were serving and that you took as much time off as you could, but you weren’t here, Sam.  They were.  I think that when she’s at prayer, she feel like they’re not really gone. You understand?”

Breathing deep, Sam thinks yeah, maybe he does a little.  He talks to Riley so much in his head that sometimes it’s like he’s not really gone. He says as much.  “I guess I can see that.”

“I’m not saying you have to pretend to be something you’re not.  Just...let her buy you a cup of coffee.”

“Tsch.  Like I’m letting my baby sister pay for me.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.  She’s the stubbornest woman I ever met.”  

Smiling, Sam can hear the affection in John’s voice. “Yeah, she takes after our daddy.”

“Sounds like you both do, you ask me.”  

Sam’s smile grows at that.  “Nah, lucky for you, I take after Mama.”

The two make a little small talk and Sam hangs up with a promise to text his sister soon.  “The rest of it’s on her,” he says, and John agrees.  

.

“Please remember your final papers are due in two weeks, people. There will be no extensions.”

Sam packs up his notebook, textbook and pencil and stuffs them into his backpack.  The kids around him are all using tables and laptops, but for Sam’s money, nothing beats a hand full of post-its and some hand-written notes.

He turns at the end of his row to head for the door when:

“Mr. Wilson?  If you have a moment?”  Professor Dowd calls out to him.

Sam pauses and waits to see what she wants.

When the room finally clears, she’s packed her own bag and has it sitting on the desk.  They’re both waiting.

She gives him a long, sympathetic look, then hands him a folded slip of paper.

“We didn’t get the grant.  I’m sorry, Sam.  I really thought we were a shoe-in.”

And it’s – fuck. _Fuck!_  He thought he’d had at least one thing going right in his life, and now he doesn’t even have that.

“Okay,” he says, and nods, then looks at the paper.

“Carol Danvers over at Brooklyn Hospital owes me a favor.  I know it’s not the population you want, but it is a job.  You’re still graduating in December?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She gives him a stern look.  “You make me feel old as dirt with that ma’am business.  In another few months, we’ll be colleagues.”

Sam smiles, feels his cheeks heat.

“How’s your internship at the VA going?  You’re under Hill, right?”

“Yes, m –.  Yes, Maria Hill.  It’s going great, actually.  She letting me lead some of the small group sessions now.  I’m learning so much.”

“Hill’s good people.  And she can’t take you on?”

“I don’t know?  We don’t have any vacancies in the clinic.  Shoulda been a nurse – they’re always hiring nurses.”

Professor Dowd smiles, her eyes soft.  “You’re going to do great things, Sam.  I have every faith in you.”

Sam’s pretty sure he’s blushing hard enough to show, now.  He stares at the ground as Professor Dowd grabs her bag.

“Subway again?”

“A scholar and a gentleman?  Will wonders never cease.”

As they walk, they talk about the peer-mentoring group that Sam leads, and the concepts that the group struggles with most.  It’s easy conversation and before he knows it, the two of them are splitting off to catch their respective trains.

On the ride home, Sam falls into his own head.  He can try a job at Brooklyn Hospital, but that’s not really what he wants.  He can keep trying to get on at the VA, and if his performance evaluation goes well, he’s probably got a good shot at it.

He has some savings – he’ll be okay for a little while if he doesn’t catch something, but that option – it feels futile.  Why has he been busting his ass for the last few years at school if he’s just going to sit on the couch all day?  

It’s one step forward, two steps back.

He should feel grateful, he knows that.  He’s doing well enough that his professor is trying to find him a job, and how many people can say that?

There’s something though – a few months ago, he’d felt like he had his life on lock.  He had a great roommate, was doing well in school, has some good friends and was getting laid regularly.  Sure, his relationship with Sarah was strained – probably always would be – but everything else was going great.

Now he’s got no job, his roommate and best friend is taking off for the summer, and the distance between him and Sarah feels insurmountable.  And he hasn’t fucked anything other than his own hand in weeks.

There’s a bar down at the end of their street; he and Steve meet up there sometimes to watch the Mets.  What he really wants is a chopped cheese from Hajji’s, a couple of cold beers, and a sit in the summer sun.  But he’s gonna settle for two or three shots of bourbon and a good old fashioned pout.

By the time he crawls into bed that night, his head is spinning and his stomach is growling.  He knows he’ll spend the next day feeling low-key queasy, but it’s worth it to just get the fuck out of his own head for a while.

When he pulls the second pillow over and buries his face in it, he notices that it doesn’t smell like Barnes anymore.  He’d been putting off washing the sheets – as gross as that is – but not consciously acknowledging why.

He’s never felt more fucking lonely in his life.

.

A couple more weeks go by and Sam finds himself in Maria Hill’s office, getting ready for his end-of-semester performance evaluation.

“Alright, Wilson, you ready for this?”  Maria closes the door behind Sam and gestures for him to sit down.

He’s a grown man, has done two tours of duty in a hot-ass dessert where people were trying to kill him damn near every day, and yet the prospect of getting a performance review from Maria Hill terrifies him.

Sam smiles and wipes his hands on his jeans.  He is not ready for this.

Maria reviews the notes on the standard evaluation form and makes a couple of noises.  At one point, she pulls out some corrector tape and makes a change.  She looks the form over once again, then leans back and grabs the box of tissues from behind her and sets it front of Sam, and his heart sinks.  It’s bad enough that she thinks he’ll cry?  He thought he was doing so well.

“Okay.  This is your formal evaluation.  I’ll read through the categories, read you my explanatory notes, and then give you a copy.  You’ll have 72 hours to review and rebut any comments, then you’ll sign and we’ll place one copy in your file here, and send one copy to your professor so that you get credit for the course.”

Sam nods, and braces himself.

As Maria starts speaking, Sam’s nervousness grows.  She’s talking about dependability and accuracy, and Sam wishes she would just get to the point.

“Customer Service:  You scored above average on this category, so I had to write an explanation.  ‘In the nine months that Sam has interned with the VA, he has gone above and beyond for his clients.  Not only does he make time to listen and understand the client’s concerns, but he has also spent his personal time educating himself on various resources outside of the VA that can help his clients meet their goals.  He took it upon himself to write a personal letter to the Stark Institute which resulted in one client receiving a new StarkTech prosthetic, and has volunteered to spend his personal time learning to write grants in order to improve overall client satisfaction.  Sam has a client-first attitude and it shows in his interactions with the clients, the volunteers, other interns and staff.  It has been a pleasure to see him grow in this way.’”

As Maria speaks, Sam feels his chest swell with pride.  He has worked so hard to be a good man, and to hear that someone sees that, sees him? He’s embarrassed to feel himself choke up a little.

“Thank you,” he says, and knows that the words couldn’t come close to expressing what he means.

“That was the good,” Maria says, turning the page.  “Now for the bad.  We don’t really have a category for this, so I put it under ‘Quantity of Work:’  Sam is a hard worker and endeavors to complete all assignments on time and with better than expected outcomes.  Sam often works beyond his scheduled shifts, and comes in nights and weekends to finish up tasks that are incomplete, whether the delay is his responsibility or not.”

Sam is confused and still not seeing the problem.

“Unfortunately, this means that Sam often forgoes self-care in favor of exceeding expectations.  Sam often skips lunch and breaks, and seldom joins the other interns for coffee breaks or other activities that are not directly work related.  Sam takes his work seriously, but is setting himself up for long-term burn out if he does not adopt better coping mechanisms.  Sam has stated his desire to be a full-time social worker in direct client services.  This is incongruous with his current self-care plan.  Attrition rates for new social workers is at near-crisis levels and cannot be taken lightly.  Therefore, this agency would be remiss if we do not set our future colleagues up for success by highlighting the need for self-care among our student workers.”

Sam feels winded, like he’s taken a punch to the chest. That is not what he’d been expecting. Not at all.

“I don’t understand,” he says, because dammit, he doesn’t.  Isn’t this what he’s supposed to do?  Work hard, help people?  Isn’t that the whole point?

“Sam.”  Maria sets down the review paperwork and looks at him.  “I don’t know what’s been going on with you this semester, but whatever it is, you’re not coping with it.  You have what it takes to be good.  To be extraordinary.  But you’re never going to get there if you don’t start taking care of yourself.  This work?  There will always be more to do.  You could work 24/7 and still not meet the need.  Success for you is going to look like maintaining a healthy balance between work and your personal life.”

Sam nods, but he still feels lost.  

They continue his review, and overall, it’s good.  It’s great.  But Sam keeps hearing the criticism and it gnaws at him.  At the end, they set goals to design and implement a self-care plan, and Maria sends him on his way with this:

“If we had the budget, Sam, I’d hire you the moment you graduate.  You’re everything we need in a front-line worker.”

When they’re done, she tells him to take the rest of the day off – “I mean it, Sam.  No working,” – and to do some research on effective self-care techniques.  He preps America to respond to a couple of clients that are expecting his return call today, and decides to walk home instead of taking the subway.  He hopes the late spring air will clear his mind.

.

.

Two weeks later, Sam’s pacing in front of the coffee shop down the street from the VA.  Sarah’d said she has some news, so Sam agreed to meet her during his break.  

When she arrives with Jody in a stroller, Sam feels his face split into a grin.  

“There’s my little man,” he says, stooping to pluck Jody from the stroller.  The boy squeals with laughter and smiles back at Sam with a grin much like his own.  

“Am!” he cries.  

“That’s right, baby,” he answers.  “I’m your uncle Sam.  Can you say Sam?”

“Tham?”

Sam laughs, feeling the happiness course through his body.  “Yeah, okay.  We’ll work on that.”

When he looks up, Sarah is beaming.

The go inside, and Sam buys himself an Americano, with a hot cocoa for Sarah.

“Everything good?” he asks, as he sets the drinks down.

“Yeah, big brother.  Everything’s - it’s real good.”  Her smile is bright and beautiful, and Sam thinks again how much motherhood agrees with her.  He hasn’t seen her this happy since -

He cocks his head, studying his sister, a slow grin taking over his face.  “Ah, hell, really?”

“Heck!” she says, with a pointed look at Jody, before resting her hand on her stomach.  “And how can you tell?”

“‘Cause you’re just like Daddy - everything you’re thinking’s all over your face.”

“And you’re just like Mama, can read me with a glance.”

Sam laughs and Sarah joins him.  “Shoot,” she says.  “I never got away with anything growing up.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re just like Daddy.”

“Yeah, or maybe because Mama always liked you best.”

“Oh are you still on that?” Sam says.  “You know she did no such thing.”

“Mmhmm,” Sarah answers.  “I know I broke curfew,” she says in a falsetto tone.  “But I was walking a lost little girl home.”

“Hey, I wasn’t lying,” Sam says, with a straight face.  “Much.”

They dissolve into laughter again and stay like that, making light, easy conversation until Sam has to head back to the office.

He’s holding Jody in his arms, getting one last dose of baby love before handing him back to Sarah.  He watches as she moves her hand from her flat belly, already protective of the life growing there.  He thinks for a moment of the birds on the balcony, and how they've made a nest and Steve telling him that he thinks there's a couple of eggs in it.

“This was nice,” he says, and means it.

Sarah nods.  “Maybe we can do it again in a few weeks?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, pressing a kiss to Jody’s cheek.  “I’d like that.”

Walking back to the office, he feels lighter than he has in months.  He hopes it lasts.

.

Sam walks in and drops his keys in the bowl by the front door.  It’s late May and the temperatures are finally getting warm enough that he can wear shorts most days.  Flicking through the day’s mail, there’s nothing there but the gas bill, so he sets it aside.  He and Steve still need to talk about how to sort the bills while he’s away in Chicago.

Turns out, he doesn’t have to wait long.

“Sam,” Steve says, coming out of his room from down the hall. “Glad you’re home.  You have a few minutes?”

Foreboding fills Sam’s stomach.  Steve is being oddly formal, which means something is definitely up.

“C’mon,” Steve says, and leads Sam to the table before grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge.

“Look, I want you to know I’ve thought about this a lot,” Steve starts, and fuck, is he about to get evicted?  Whatever is coming cannot be good.

“I’ve thought about this a lot, and, I want to be fair to everyone.”

“Alright, man, just spit it out,” Sam says.  Whatever this is about, Sam just wants it over.

Biting his lip, Steve peels at the label on his bottle.  “The program in Chicago is over eight grand. I got a partial scholarship and that covers lodging, but I still have to pay for food while I’m there, and the balance of the program that the scholarship doesn’t cover, and keep up my half of things on this place.”

“Okay,” Sam says, not really sure where this is going.  He can lend Steve money, if that’s what he needs.  They’ve never done that before, never had a need, and Sam isn’t sure he likes the taste of it, but he’ll do it. He knows Steve would never fuck him over on purpose.

Steve gets that complicated look on his face – the one that flits between anxious and angry, before it settles to stubborn.  Whatever it is, Steve’s mind is made up.

“Bucky’s moving in to cover my half of things while I’m gone.”

“What?”  Sam pushes back from the table, his fight or flight kicking in hard.  “Come on, man.  You couldn’t have talked to me about this first?  I never –  this isn’t cool, Steve.”

Folding his hands in front of him, Steve gives Sam a look and Sam knows the battle is already lost.

“What if I cover stuff?  I can afford a bump for a few months.  You don’t need to do this,” Sam says.

“It’s not just the money.  Buck’s moving to LA in the fall.  He…he got a record deal.  A solo deal.  This’ll help him save for the trip and cover some of his expenses while he’s there.”

“I can't believe you'd do this without talking to me first.” Sam’s already defeated and his heart – his heart.  He’s going to have to live with Bucky for months.  And then say goodbye and maybe never see him again?  How is he supposed to do this?

“I know you’re upset, but, Sam, it’s going to be fine.”

“Fine?  Steve.  He’s immature and irresponsible and a slob.  This is going to be a disaster.”

Steve stares at Sam long enough for Sam to be uncomfortable.  “You know,” he starts.  “I stayed out of whatever you two had going on.  I don’t think it was good for either one of you, but I stayed out of it.  And I’m sorry if that complicates things, but this is my house, and if my friend needs a place to stay, I’m going to offer it.”

And Sam feels shitty.  Of course Steve is going to try to do what’s right by everyone.  That’s who he is.  It’s part of why Sam loves him so much.

“Alright,” Sam says.  He knows he lost this battle before it even began.  “Hope he doesn’t think I’ll be picking up after him.  You tell him I am not his maid.”

Yeah, he was going for a little bit of levity, but Sam recognizes the mean little barb in the middle there.

“You know, Sam,” Steve starts, and oh, the look on his face.  It’s defeated and sad and so disappointed.  “He has never said one word against you.  Not one.”  Steve shakes his head and leaves the table, their little conversation apparently done.

Sam gets up and goes to his room, where he spends a long night fighting his pillow.  He knows he has a lot to be thankful for, but today?  Today it’s too damn hard.  He’s almost done with school and he has no job, his friend is spending the summer halfway across the country, and the person who makes his heart keen is moving in down the hall.  What he wants – what he needs – is to lay his head in his Mama’s lap and have a good long cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, ouch, I know, but...we're a little more than halfway through so there's a lot left to happen. (please don't hurt me, I'm sorry!) Next chapter next Wednesday. 
> 
> You guys, I'm SO EXCITED!! I wrote a fic and the mods at the Sam Wilson Birthday Bang were gracious allow me to add on at the last minute AND they hooked me up with one of THE MOST FANTASTICALLY TALENTED ARTISTS IN ALL OF FANDOM!!!! AND THE ART THEY ARE MAKING IS BLOWING MY LITTLE TINY MIND AND GAAHHHH! 
> 
> So that'll post soon, and I promise I'm a whole lot nicer to Sam in that fic. :)
> 
> Speaking of the SWBB...I've read a couple of amazing fics so far:
> 
> [time we lost is resting on the stairs (and so we go)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12112080) by control is a really sweet Sam/Bucky fic, and the art by ensign-cannonfodder is gorgeous.
> 
> [Table 17](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12186534) by hermionesmydawg and Lesserknownhero is such a great little meet-cuteish Sam/Steve fic. I loved it! 
> 
> [We'll rise up free and easy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12109473) by Sarsaparilla and woofgender was a great action fic featuring Sam and Bucky. 
> 
> If you need a Sam fix, I recommend any of the above!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My love and thanks again to Buf and Ty. All the mistakes are mine.

At rightaround forty days, young Peregrines begin flying. Peregrine parents encourage flight by "baiting" the young with food, which is no longer neatly prepared and fed directly to the young. It is a lot of fun to watch young Peregrines chasing each other and everything else! As in many other species, Peregrine young learn in part through "playing" - however, this play can be deadly serious when hunting is involved.  Peregrines hunt and eat other birds and are famed for their speed (stooping, or diving, Peregrines have been clocked at speeds of up to 220mph) and aerial prowess. - https://www.raptorresource.org/facts.htm

.

.

Summer sets its sights on New York City in earnest.  Sam feels the sweat drip down between his shoulders as he gets back to the apartment, and has just enough time to polish off the last of the OJ before he hears the front door open.

Steve left for Chicago two days ago, and Sam’s been dreading this moment ever since.

“Sam?”  Bucky’s voice pangs something in Sam’s gut, but he makes his way to the living room.

Bucky’s got an amp under one arm and a guitar in one hand.  Sam moves to help out, taking the amp from its precarious perch.

“Thanks,” Bucky says.

It’s awkward as fuck, no way around it.  Sam doesn’t know how to act around Bucky, and Bucky is acting like he’d rather be anywhere but there.

Bucky finally breaks the silence.  “Look, I know this isn’t ideal.  I’ll stay out of your hair as much as possible.”

Sam shrugs, a little bit hurt _for_ Bucky.  “Look, don’t worry about it, okay?  You’re here now.  It’s…it’ll be fine.”

Sam helps Bucky move the rest of his things into Steve’s room.  It takes about twenty minutes, and then Bucky closes the bedroom door.  Sam doesn’t hear a peep out of him for the rest of the day.

The next day passes with more of the same.  On the third, Sam knocks to offer Bucky dinner.  He’s not out of the habit of cooking for two, with planned leftovers, and they can’t just ignore each other for the rest of the summer.

They eat in awkward silence.  Sam watches Bucky, tries to get a read on how he’s doing, but Bucky keeps his eyes on his plate.  Sam gets what he thinks is a sincere “this is really good,” out of him about halfway through the meal, and then nothing more.  At the end of the meal, Bucky offers to clean up, and Sam lets him.

As they’re carrying their plates to the kitchen, Sam says, “Wanna…play some Mario Kart?  Watch a movie?”  He wants to – fuck – he wants to kick himself for it, the words out before he can get his head around it.

“Nah, m’good,” Bucky answers, and…okay.

They go on like that, sometimes eating together, sometimes not, Bucky more of a ghost than a tangible roommate, until one warm afternoon when Bucky happens upon Sam at the kitchen window.

“Shhh,” Sam says, and motions Bucky over.  “C’mere – look.”

He makes way for Bucky to look out.

“Hooooly,” Bucky says.

“Right?”  Sam’s got a soft, bright smile on his face.  The falcons that have nested on their fire escape all spring are the proud parents now of three fledgling babies.  They’re…not pretty.  They’re mostly brown and beige, with white baby feathers sticking up here and there.

As they watch, one of the babies stands tall and flaps its wings a few times.  One of the adults (“That’s mama,” Sam says) squawks at it, and it ducks its head and folds its wings.  Bucky watches the birds and Sam watches Bucky, a longing in his heart so fierce it hurts.

In the weeks since Sam called it off, Bucky’s hair’s grown a little bit longer.  The scruff of a few days’ beard growth and the dark smudges under his eyes bring out that protective side of Sam.  He wants wrap Bucky up in his arms, snuggle him down into the blankets and hold him until those dark marks go away.

“Will they fly soon?” Bucky asks, turning to look at Sam and oh.

_Oh._

He’s close enough that Sam can taste his breath, and they stare at each other for a moment.  The air between them vibrates with something, or maybe that’s just Sam’s wishful thinking.

Bucky breaks first, ducking his head and stepping back, out of Sam’s space.

Sam forces an easy smile to his face.  “They should have a week or two left.  When the white feathers are mostly gone, that’s when they’ll fly.”

“This is really cool, Sam,” Bucky says, and the smile that lights his face is soft, makes him look almost pretty.  “Thanks for showing me.”

After that, things ease between them, a little.  Bucky still spends a lot of his free time in Steve’s bedroom, and Sam strains to hear the soft guitar notes as Bucky writes his songs.  Sam still invites him to dinner, and sometimes Bucky says yes, and sometimes he says no.  There doesn’t seem to be much rhyme or reason, but at least Sam doesn’t feel like they’re walking on eggshells around each other anymore.

Waiting in line for coffee one morning, Sam strikes up a conversation with a young, good-looking Asian man.  He’s got black hair and dark brown eyes, and looks better in olive green than anyone has a right to.

“You a vet?” Sam asks, taking in the way the guy stands, like he’s clocking every exit, just in case.

The guy ducks his head and forces his shoulders down.  “Just got out a couple months ago.  Is it that obvious?”

“Nah,” Sam says, and claps his hand on the guy’s shoulder.  “But, you know, at ease, soldier.”

This earns Sam a smile: a row of even white teeth with a dimple flashing, and Sam finds himself smiling back.  

“Morita,” the guys says, and extends his hand to shake.  “James Morita, Army.”

“Sam Wilson,” he replies, and when he reaches out for James’s hand, he feels himself go loose all over.  A look passes between them, and Morita’s smile warms.  

“Buy you a cup of coffee, Sam?”

Smiling, Sam agrees, and the two of them spend a pleasant hour talking about their time in the service, and the adjustment to civilian life.  It doesn’t take Sam long to realize he’s being flirted with, and he warms at the idea of the handsome man across from him wanting him.

As they wrap things up, Morita starts to look nervous, and Sam’s feeling just good enough to not want to watch the man squirm for him.

Reaching across the table, he takes Morita’s hand in his.  “Let me know if I’m out of line, but I’d like to do this again,” he says.

Morita flushes pink, and that’s all the answer Sam needs.  

Two days later, they meet for drinks and dinner at an Italian place that Morita knows.  It’s fantastic, and when he walks Jimmy to his door, he reflects on what’s been a perfectly nice date.

It’s not until Jimmy turns to him and tilts his face up toward Sam’s, his eyes already fluttering closed, that Sam realizes what was missing.  As he presses his mouth against Jimmy’s he realizes that there’s nary a butterfly to be found.  He doesn’t feel that little frisson of energy in his belly, doesn’t feel his heart skip a beat, or feel like there’s not quite enough air in the hallway outside of Morita’s apartment.

The kiss is just like the date:  it’s _nice._

Jimmy gives Sam a gorgeous smile at the end of it, and promises to call Sam, and all Sam can think is that he’d be just fine either way.  Call or don’t.  Doesn’t matter.

He’s mulling it over when he gets home, dropping his keys into the bowl next to the front door.

He stops short when he realizes that Bucky’s on the couch, guitar slung across his lap, hair falling down into his eyes.

Shaking his hair back, Bucky stills his fingers and stares at Sam.  

“Hot date?” he asks, and damn.   _Damn._  Sam’s wearing a collared shirt and nice jeans and...yeah.  Date.

He’s glad Bucky can’t see him blush.  “Yeah.  Uhm...you up to anything tonight?”

“Nope.”

The air is heavy and still between them, and fuck.  Sam wants to explain himself.  He wants to tell Bucky that yeah, it was a date and it was even kind of good, but Morita isn’t Bucky, and once Sam realized that, the date was over.

He can’t though, and he doesn’t quite understand.  It’s not like Bucky’s been pining after Sam.  Hell, it’s not like Bucky even wanted him like _that._   So why’s he acting jealous?  And why does Sam feel guilty?

Sam shrugs and says, “You up for a round of Mario Kart?”  

Bucky stares at him a minute before shaking his head.  “Nah.  Got stuff to do.”

He gets up and heads to Steve’s room, closing the door behind him.

Sam doesn’t see him again for another three days.

.

Sam walks into the apartment and closes the door behind him, dropping his keys onto the small table at the entryway.  He thumbs through the day’s mail and wonders if Bucky’s sleeping or just not home, and decides it doesn’t matter.

He only has to live this way for three more weeks.    

It’s quiet and still, the early evening sunlight slipping in through closed blinds.  He’s getting ready for a quiet night, home alone, until he hears the soft tripping of guitar notes drifting down the hallway.  Walking toward the sound, he pauses at the end of hall when he hears Bucky singing softly, under his breath.

“Hhmm hmm something something when I’m leaving his bed

He’s cool like the ocean na na nah..something...fuck.”

Smacking his hand against the body of the guitar, Bucky huffs and jots something onto a tablet beside him, before putting the pencil back into his mouth and playing a few more notes.  His hair’s getting longer, laying against his cheek and he tosses his head, coaxing it out of his eyes, then freezes when he sees Sam.

“Sorry, man,” Sam says.  “I didn’t mean to make you stop.”  Sam walks toward the bedroom where Bucky is, hovers in the doorway.

Bucky flushes and Sam wants to fix that.  He’s not trying to embarrass Bucky.  His music is something that Sam has always been curious about, and one of the hundred reasons that Sam found to fall for the guy.

“It was really good,” Sam says, and Bucky flushes further.  “No, really.  It was like...something you’d hear on the radio.”

“Well that sucks.”

“Hey, that was a compliment.”

“Okay, but, no one wants to write a song just like every other song you’ve ever heard, you know?”

Okay, yeah, Sam gets that.  He hangs his head a little before looking up at Bucky.  The guitar is slung across his lap and he’s got one leg up under him and the other dangling off the bed.  His hair is every which way, and it makes Sam want to put his fingers in it.  

“Didn’t mean it like that.  I meant it sounded good, professional.”

The look at each other for a moment and Sam, Sam doesn’t want to lose this.  They’ve found a tentative peace in the last few weeks, and if he can’t have Bucky the way he wants him, maybe he can have him as a friend instead.

“Can I ask you something?” Sam says, and Bucky looks up, nods.  “How do you do it?  I mean, how do you write love songs when you’re not...you know?”

Bucky stares at him for a moment, then blinks.  

“Sorry, guess -”

“It’s just -”

“Go ahead,” Sam says, and Bucky shrugs.  

“Guess you think about what if, you know?” he asks, and no, Sam doesn’t know at all.  

Bucky rests his hand against the strings, picks a little at them while looking down.  “You think, what if he was here right now, what would I say to him?”  

Sam smiles.  “You always think about someone specific when you write?  Is it all autobiographical?”

Bucky shrugs.  “Sometimes it’s, you know, the sum of the parts,” he says.  “Of a heart,” and then he pauses and writes something down.  He looks up at Sam but keeps picking at the strings.  They make a light, pretty sound in the twilight.  “How do you tell someone you love them when they can’t see it, right there on your face?  What do you say so that they finally see?”

Bucky picks at the strings some more, and sings soft:

_“I’m kissing all my secrets right into his skin_

_“And he don’t know it, but he’s the love I’m in.”_

Sam must make a face because Bucky brings his thumb down hard on the strings and it makes a long, ugly sound.  

“Anyway,” Bucky says, and coughs out a laugh.  “That’s the magic.  Guess no one’s really figured it out yet, ‘cause we all keep trying.”

“Did you ever tell him?  The guy you’re writing about?”

Bucky stops strumming, and looks at Sam long enough that Sam regrets asking.

“He wouldn’t have heard me.  He didn’t want that.”  The words are bitter and damn.  _Damn._  

“Should have told him,” Sam says, because what man wouldn’t want this from Bucky?  What man wouldn’t want to see that face, every damn morning when they wake up, sleepy and soft, and the way the corner of his mouth curves up, the way his whole face scrunches when he’s really happy.  Who wouldn’t want that?

“Yeah, well,” Bucky says, then watches his fingers playing against the fret.

“Is it too late, do you think?” Because suddenly Sam wants this.  He needs – if he can’t be the one making Bucky happy, shouldn’t someone?  Shouldn’t this guy know at least, that someone like Bucky, someone smart and kind and funny and gorgeous, shouldn’t he know that someone like that loves him?

Bucky shrugs.  “Nah, I fucked it all up.  He’s moved on.”  Bucky won’t meet Sam’s eyes, and Sam swallows. 

He should walk away now, he knows that.   The air feels charged and awkward, and Sam knows he’s the reason why, him and his big dumb heart that can’t stop loving the man in front of him, no matter how much Bucky doesn’t want it.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says.

Bucky shrugs.  “Keep thinking I’m gonna wise up and love someone who will love me back, someday.”

Biting back the words he really wants to say, Sam chuckles.  “You and me, both, man.  You and me both.  Hey, fajitas sound okay?  I’ll go make some dinner, let you finish up in here.”

Fingers tripping across the strings again, Bucky nods.  “Want a hand?  I’m not sure I’ve got much more in me tonight,” he says, gesturing at the guitar.

“Nah, I got this.  You’re good.”  Because as much as Sam loves having Bucky moving around him in the kitchen, he doesn’t think he can stand it right now.  Not and not reach out for him, hold him and tell him that whoever that guy was?  Whoever broke his heart?  That guy was damned fool.  “I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

Walking into the kitchen, Sam stands in front of the sink and grips the edge hard, Formica biting into the soft palms of his hands before drawing them back to rub against his face, over his head.  He stands with them laced behind his neck, head bowed, heart pumping hard.

.

Sam lies in bed, the ceiling fan making soft swoops in the quiet.  He’s fighting for sleep: fighting to stay quiet and still, fighting his brain, which is racing with everything he wants, and how everything he wants is at the other end of the hall.  He’s fighting his heart, which feels like it’s breaking into a hundred pieces, over and over and over.

Dinner was awkward again, stilted, as they each struggled to make conversation.  All Sam wanted to do was lace his fingers with Bucky’s, or reach over and tuck that lock of hair behind Bucky’s ear.  Instead they both picked at their fajitas, and when Sam couldn’t take it anymore, he took his plate to the kitchen and went to bed. 

He huffs and punches his pillow down.  He thought it would be easier, having some part of Bucky.  Being his friend.

He didn’t know.

When his door opens, Sam turns, and Bucky is there in the quiet light that’s bleeding from the streetlight outside.

“Sam,” he whispers, and then he crawls onto the bed and Sam turns onto his back and he’s got his arms full of Bucky, his head full of his smell, that clean laundry and cedar smell, and Sam can’t say no.  

“Please,” Bucky whispers.  “Sam, please.  Can I?”

“I’ve got you,” he says and Bucky’s got his mouth on his and it’s - it’s - God, he’s missed this.  He’s _missed_ it. He’s missed it so much and he didn’t even know it, because it was buried under all the other ways he’s missed having Bucky in his bed.

“I need, please, Sam, I need –” Bucky says, and Sam knows.  Sam knows that Bucky is thinking of someone else, missing someone else, and that’s okay for right now, for just tonight.  He can do this.  He can let himself have this one more time.

Sam gathers Bucky’s hair in his hands and brings their mouths together and it’s - god, so good.

“So good,” he says and his voice is a whisper, practiced from all those other times and it doesn’t matter that there is no roommate here tonight, no one to hear them.  Sam thinks his voice could shatter the moon, bring it all crashing down around them.

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters, and he’s pushing Sam’s t-shirt up and pushing the sheet down, fingers frantic against Sam’s hot skin.

“Off,” Sam says, pulling at the back of Bucky’s shirt, and he stops mouthing Sam’s neck long enough to help.

They roll over and over, back and forth and they’re frantic and grinding, but they don’t slow long enough to get any further, can’t bear to break from each other long enough until Bucky grinds into Sam and Sam whines and presses back, hands on Bucky’s hips, holding him closer as he rocks up against him.

“Please, Sam,” Bucky says, and his fingers play at the waistband of Sam’s boxer-briefs.  

“Come on,” Sam answers, and slides his hands down to get Bucky’s shorts over his hips.  Sam brings his legs up and kicks Bucky’s shorts the rest of the way down, and then Bucky sits up, pulling Sam’s down with him.  He throws them over his shoulder and then turns back to Sam and just stops.  Stares.

Sam feels not just naked but stripped, like Bucky’s seeing everything and you know? So what.  Let him.  There’s a part of Sam that feels a little bit mean, a little bit like letting Bucky feel bad about not loving him back, if he’s going to stare at Sam that way.

They sit like that for a minute.  Sam can’t read Bucky’s face, but he knows his is a little bit defiant.  A little bit of ‘fuck you,’ for not seeing how much Sam loves him.  For not loving him back.

Bucky breaks first.

“I know,” he says, as he leans down to take Sam’s mouth again.  “I know, I’m sorry.  Please, I just - Sam, please.”

And Sam gives up any pretense he has of hating this man.  

He brings his arms around Bucky, scratches at the nape of his neck.

“Come on,” Sam says.  “Come on.  Want you inside me.”

Bucky exhales hard and then stills, his face in the crook of Sam’s neck.

Tangling his fingers through Bucky’s hair, Sam turns to press a kiss against his neck, and like that, the urgency bleeds out of the night, out of both of them.  

Kissing down the column of Sam’s neck, Bucky slides off to the side, his fingers playing against every bit of skin they can find.  He skates them down Sam’s side, across his hip and down his thigh, pausing to take Sam’s cock in hand and stroking hard, just enough to get Sam to thrust into it, before he lets go and cups Sam’s balls.  Sam whimpers - it’s been weeks - and Bucky shushes him before turning his attention back to Sam’s body.  

He flicks his tongue against one nipple while he teases the other.  Hitching Sam’s leg up, he scratches down Sam’s calf before pressing his thumb into the back of Sam’s knee.  

“Gonna be so good for you,” he says, and Sam is spinning.  

When Bucky takes Sam into his mouth, everything in his world stops, consumed by the hot, wet, soft of Bucky’s mouth.  It’s teasing - there’s no hurry behind it, and Sam knows by the way that Bucky is mouthing him that he’s not going to get to come down Bucky’s throat - not right now.  So he tries to let it go, instead letting himself feel the pleasure without having a destination in mind.  

For all he knows, this will be the last time he’ll have Bucky like this; he’ll take everything he can get.

It’s not long before Bucky is running his fingers down through the slick of spit and precum to rub against Sam’s hole.  Then he’s nosing at the crease of Sam’s thigh, and then behind his balls and he’s pressing soft kisses and licks there and Sam’s fisting the sheets because this is his undoing, every damn time.

Bucky takes his time there, too, slowly pulling Sam apart until he’s moaning and whining, desperate to feel more - more fingers, more mouth, more everything.  He wants Bucky on top of him, he wants Bucky fucking him and he wants to come with Bucky’s name on his lips, not biting it back the way he always has.  

When Bucky leans over him and reaches for the lube and condom, Sam takes the opportunity to wrap a hand around Bucky’s cock, stroking it firm and slow, before he bends to take it into his mouth.

“Sam! Fuck!”  Bucky shudders, kneeling above Sam, and gives a soft moan as the thick head presses against the back of Sam’s throat.

“Stop, Jesus, stop,” Bucky says, laughing and pushing Sam back down.  

He gives Bucky a smirk before moving to turn over, but Bucky stops him.  Sam looks up at him in question but Bucky doesn’t say anything, just presses his slicked fingers between Sam’s legs before bending down to kiss him.  

Bucky opens him up that way - Sam with his heels pressed into the bed and Bucky rutting against his hip, his fingers gentle and relentless, bringing Sam right to the edge, while he kisses the damn breath out of him.

“Bucky, come on,” Sam whines, and then Bucky eases back, tears open the condom package and rolls the condom on.  

Sam watches him, waiting for instruction, because with all the times they’ve fucked over all the weeks and months, they’ve never once done it like this, Bucky laying over him, close enough to kiss.  

As Bucky eases in, Sam brings his legs up, holding Bucky there, pulling his hips closer.  Then Bucky bottoms out, and brings his mouth to Sam’s.  They kiss, and Sam’s –oh, God – he’s grateful they’ve never done this before.  How could he have survived? 

Bucky moves with slow, steady thrusts.  His mouth is on Sam’s and they’re kissing, kissing, and Sam is - he’s holding Bucky so close and Bucky’s making these soft, wounded sounds in the back of his throat.  They keep at it until they’re not even kissing, just sharing each other’s air, mouths pressed close.  Bucky’s resting his forehead against Sam’s and it’s - oh, oh God, this isn’t fucking at all, he thinks, not at all.  Bucky eases his hand between them, stroking Sam, and Sam can’t even pretend that his world isn’t ending, crashing down all around him, and what does he care if it feels this good?

“Come on,” Bucky’s whispering. “Come on, sweetheart, come for me, gonna make you feel so good,” and oh, that’s - that’s too much.  Sam comes, hard, and sharp, saying Bucky’s name, and Bucky’s there, kissing against Sam’s throat before groaning out his own pleasure, only moments later.  

Bucky buries his face in the crook of Sam’s neck, each of them panting and trying to catch their breath, Sam wondering just what the hell is going on.

Then Bucky moves and Sam’s fingers tighten, reflexive, holding Bucky close.  

“Stay,” he says.  He doesn’t want to say it but he _has_ to.  He knows that Bucky won’t know what he means.  It’s the closest Sam can come to saying _I love you;_  the closest he can come to asking for what he wants.

Bucky freezes, and maybe he understands after all.  Sam’s aware for a moment - a single, shining, heart-pounding moment - that’s he’s gone too far.  That he’s going to lose everything, and right now.

“Just have to,” Bucky says, before pulling out of Sam.  He gets up long enough to discard the condom, then he’s back, sliding the sheet and thin blanket up over the two of them, coming to rest with his head on Sam’s chest.  

“Can I just…?” And Sam thinks _yeah, yeah you can.  Anything._

Bucky noses into the crook of Sam’s neck, breathes deep.  He lays a kiss against Sam’s neck, and Sam wonders again what idiot wouldn’t want Bucky Barnes in his bed?  Maybe he shouldn’t want to know, but he does.  Needs to, is more like it.

“Who is it?” Sam asks, the words out before he can censor himself.

Bucky looks up at him with a question.

“The guy?  Who’re you writing your songs for?”

Pulling back, Bucky looks downright confused.  “I saw you with him once.  After that show you guys did  - the place with the patio out back?”

Bucky stares at him, and Sam never knows when to shut up, so he goes on.  “Older guy, right?  Tall? Gray hair?”

“What are you…?” And then Bucky’s face lights up in recognition.  “Johnny?  Jesus, Sam, I’m not – he’s my sponsor!  I’d been-“ and Bucky pauses, before going on, a bit more subdued.  “I’d been struggling, so he came out to see me play, make sure I was okay.  God, he’s going to die laughing when I tell him this.  He’s married.  Like _married_ married.  Really cool guy, too.  They have dogs and shit.  You thought I was with Johnny?”

“Sorry, man.  Didn’t know.  Just, you’ve been sad about someone, and you’re writing all these songs about _him_.”  Sam feels himself withdrawing as he speaks.  Pulling away he rests back against the pillow and closes his eyes.  “Didn’t mean to make it weird.”  He waits for the bed to move, for Bucky to get up and leave.

“You didn’t – you don’t – _Sam,”_ he says, and he sounds _wrecked,_ and hell, now Sam has to clean up his mess.

“Hey, c’mere,” Sam says, and reaches for Bucky, but he pulls further back, sitting up, and there’s something on his face, something that’s breaking Sam’s heart, shattering it, making him want to howl with the unfairness.

“Sam,” he says, and God, he looks like he’s going to cry.  “It’s –“ and then he swallows hard and his eyes water and fuck, fuck, Sam did not mean for this to happen.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, sitting up.  “I wasn’t trying to upset you.  Just –“  Sam shrugs.  “Just forget about it.  Come on, _come here.”_  He opens his arms and watches as Bucky stares at his lap.  

The peaceful quiet of the room grows eerie.

Sam lets his arms drop as Bucky keeps staring, then he nods, a short, sharp laugh coming from his mouth as he shakes his head.

He looks at Sam and Sam leans over, cups Bucky’s cheek into his hand.

He aches for this man.

“He’s an idiot,” Sam says, looking into Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky smiles, watery and red-eyed.  “Yeah, he’s an idiot.  And I’m an idiot.  We’re all idiots,” he says, and then he leans and presses his lips against Sam’s.

Pulling him close, Sam feels him tremble, and then Bucky sucks Sam’s lower lip into his mouth, nips at it with sharp teeth.

“Hey,” Sam says, but there’s a smile on his face.

“Hey yourself,” Bucky says back, and he’s suddenly sweet and playful in Sam’s arms.  His hand slides down Sam’s side, tickling at his ribs and he giggles as Sam squirms.

“What in the…?”

Bucky just looks at him, grins, then kisses his lips once more.

“Nothing,” he says, still smiling.  “Let’s get some sleep.  You need your beauty rest.”

“I know you did not just say that.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I just did,” Bucky says.  He pushes Sam back, down onto the mattress then snuggles in close.

Sam allows himself to be pushed into place, then wraps his arms around Bucky as Bucky lays his head on Sam’s chest, wrapping an arm around Sam’s side.

Sam’s not quite sure what just happened, what made Bucky’s mood change so fast, but he doesn’t care.  He has a smiling, happy Bucky in his bed and in his arms.  He slips off to sleep, sweet and easy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID BUCKY JUST FIGURE SOMETHING OUT???
> 
> a) Look, I don't want to say this, but I kind of feel like I haaave to. Remember that prologue? We're not there yet. (I'm sorry!!) Also, unless I go wild with the final chapter, this will be 8 chapters long (with chapter 8 being looong). Home stretch, baby! Next chapter updates next Wednesday.
> 
> b) Did you know I wrote a fic for the Sam Wilson Birthday Bang? Did you know that alby_mangroves made some drop-dead gorgeous art for it? Yes! It's alll true. You can read/see it [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12220341)
> 
>  
> 
> **FIC RECS:**
> 
>  
> 
> [The Philadelphia Mission](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12218271) is a fantastic "oh no! we have to pretend to be a couple and we haaaate each other!" Sam/Bucky fic. I looooved it. 
> 
> [Employee Discount](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12201258) is probably one of my favorite fics to come from the SWBB. It's got lovely teen angsty Sam/Bucky with the rest of the gang to fill in the blanks. They all work at the mall. What more do you need from a fic, I ask you?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mad thanks to Buf and Ty for the beta and the love. <3

Everything changes after that.  The melancholy, moody Bucky disappears and in his place is someone who is light, cheerful and fucking gorgeous in his happiness.

When Sam’s alarm goes off in the mornings, he’s got Bucky curled around him, pressing kisses into his skin.  When he comes home, it’s to Bucky in their shared living space, playing guitar and writing in his notebook, hair either falling into his eyes or pulled back into a top knot that does things to Sam’s insides.

Sam makes dinner – he likes to cook – and Bucky does dishes.  After dinner, they listen to music, or Bucky plays for Sam, or they watch TV, or play video games or just exist in one another’s space.  There’s a softness, a sweetness to Bucky that Sam’s never experienced before.  He’s always seen Bucky’s charisma, but this is something different.  He gets it now – Steve’s loyalty to the guy.

Walking to the subway one morning, Sam thinks back to the weekend, and how he’d been curled on the couch reading a book when Bucky came over and pressed a hot cup of coffee into Sam’s hand and a kiss to his forehead.  A moment later, Sam was listening to Bucky pick at his acoustic guitar.  Sam put his book down and closed his eyes, content.

It’s been good, this time with Bucky.  It’s been good and it’s been sweet and it’s been peaceful.  After that first night, Sam thought about turning Bucky away if he tried to come at Sam again, but then…then he thought why?  Why can’t he give himself this, if this is what he wants?

He’s not stupid.  He knows that Bucky is leaving, and that chances are good that he’ll never come back.  Bucky Barnes is talented.  His voice is beautiful – rich and full – and when he sings his bluesy little songs, Sam finds himself getting all soft-hearted all over again.  If anyone in LA has half a brain, they’re going to hear him singing like that and plug him into their star-making machine.  Sam guesses that the next time he’ll see Bucky Barnes once he leaves for LA will be television – some artsy shot with cigarette smoke and Bucky hunched over the guitar looking plain heartbroken.

Smiling at the thought, Sam shrugs at himself.  Bucky might not be in love with him and that’s okay.  Doesn’t mean they can’t still be good to each other, maybe even good for each other.  And Sam?  Sam’s taking what he can get.  He knows there’ll be a price, and he’s willing to pay it.  He’s the happiest he’s been in a really long time.  He’s not going to let a little thing like reality destroy that.

New York gets hit by a brutal heat wave at the beginning of August.  The pair of them lay listless on the bed, the couch, the floor.

“It’s too hot,” Bucky groans, and Sam can’t disagree.

“I know, man, all the fans are going.”

Bucky sighs and flops against the couch.  “How do you guys stand it?”

Sam stops and thinks for a minute.  “You know what, come on.  Let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks.  “Where are we going?”

Sam grins.  “You got trunks?”

An hour later, the two of them are kicking off their flip flops and racing one another to the water.  

Sam yelps as the first bite of the cold water hits his crotch, but Bucky comes up on him and leaps onto his back, sending the pair of them into the swirling water.  They play in the surf and dry out in the sun, Bucky passing Sam a tube of sunscreen, and the pair of them take turns, rubbing it into one another’s skin.  They doze on bath towels in the warm sun, and Sam buys them a couple of cokes from a kid selling them from an ice chest.  They’re icy cold and burn going down and Sam’s never tasted anything so sweet.  With his eyes closed, Sam can hear the throb of the ocean and smell the salt and sunblock in the air.  Bucky’s close enough that Sam can hear it when he sighs, and it’s peaceful and sweet.  He never wants to leave.

A dog, big and blue-gray, comes bounding over and kicks up a spray of sand.  He stops with a bark, and Bucky laughs, sitting up and taking up the ball that the dog dropped at their feet.

“Oh yeah?” he asks.  The dog barks again, sharp and urgent, so Bucky stands and throws the ball.  

Sam sits up on his elbows and watches as Bucky plays with the dog, throwing the ball into the surf and watching as the dog chases it.  He’s beautiful, Sam thinks.  Beautiful.

Eventually a couple comes into view, the man calling after the dog and the dog barks and fetches the ball, running circles around the man and woman as they chastise him for wandering off.  

Bucky grins and makes conversation, and Sam just watches, taking it all in.  It doesn’t feel like too much to ask for, he thinks.  Quiet moments like this, where he and Bucky can just be.  It’s all he wants.

That evening the pair of them crowd into the stuffy apartment, racing for the sole bathroom.

“C’mon, Sam,” Bucky moans. “Gotta go.”

“Hold your horses,” Sam replies.  He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and doesn’t think he’s ever looked so...happy.  He’s happy.  

Bucky makes them sandwiches, thick with tomatoes from Mrs. Johnson’s rooftop garden, and mayo that Sam makes from scratch.  He and Bucky devour them, Bucky making obscene noises that go straight to Sam’s dick.

When they’re done eating, Sam gathers their plates to bring them to the kitchen, but Bucky grabs his wrist, pulls him down for a kiss on the cheek, before pressing another to his temple.  

“You smell like the ocean,” Bucky says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Sam’s jaw.  

“I need to shower,” Sam replies.

Bucky draws back to look at him, and Sam doesn’t know what to make of the look on his face.  It’s naked and full of something, something that Sam can’t name.

“Don’t,” he says, and Sam notices the sun-tinged pink of Bucky’s cheekbones, and the tip of his nose.

Bucky pulls him down onto the couch for a kiss and they lay like that for an hour, just kissing and kissing, Bucky taking his time, holding Sam right where he wants him, kissing him breathless before slowing the pace, until they're just nipping at each other’s mouths.

“Too hot to fuck,” Bucky says, “But god, you smell good.”

Sam huffs a little laugh and Bucky swallows it.  “Taste good, too,” he says.

Sam knows he doesn’t.  If anything he tastes like bacon and tomato sandwiches, and maybe the cherry Kool Aid that Bucky insists on brewing up every few days.  

“Come on,” Sam says.  “Let’s go cool off.”

Under the lukewarm shower spray, Bucky falls to his knees and presses Sam up against the tiles.  He tips his head back and closes his eyes, letting Bucky bring him off with his fingers and his mouth.  

Sam’s knees want to give out, but Bucky holds him steady, hips pinned up against the shower wall.  When he no longer feels like he’s going to pass out, Sam reaches for Bucky, stroking him hard and fast, leaving soft, sucking kisses up and down Bucky’s neck until he comes, Sam feeling the vibration of his moans against his tongue.

As they towel one another off, the fans lick cool breezes against their skin.  Bucky chuckles when Sam’s skin pebbles, then yelps as Sam nips at his chest.  

“C’mon,” Bucky says, rubbing the towel against Sam’s head.  “Let’s go to bed.”

A few nights later, Sam’s pushing back from a plate of pasta with chicken and vegetables, and more than a little cream sauce.  It’s one of his go-to date meals, and it doesn’t matter that this isn’t a date; Bucky was suitably impressed.

They’re both nibbling at the last piece of bread, making easy conversation when Bucky leans over and grabs Sam’s hand.

“Hey,” he says, a look of excitement crossing his face.  “You wanna go dancing?”

And hell.  Maybe Sam can’t sing so great (Mama always said he could make dogs howl), but dancing?  Dancing Sam can do.

Forty-five minutes later, Sam and Bucky are in the back of a Lyft, with Bucky giving the driver specific instructions.  He reaches across the seat and laces his fingers with Sam’s, and it tugs at Sam’s heart something fierce.  He risks a look at Bucky and they’re both just grinning at each other.

“Gonna embarrass you out there,” Sam says, because while he is intimate with how Bucky can move his hips, there is no way he can outshine Sam on the dance floor.

They get into the club and Sam’s surprised.  It’s clearly a gay bar, with almost all of the couples being of the same sex, and a few mixed groups here and there.  It settles something inside of Sam, some nervousness he’d been carrying.  He has no shame about who he is, but neither does he want someone else’s shitty comments marring this night.

Sam catches them a table and Bucky heads to the bar.  When Sam looks over, the bartender seems to be laying it on thick.  Bucky shrugs and brings a beer and a soda back to the table.  They’re tucking into a corner by the door, away from the dance floor and it’s loud, but not so loud they can’t hear each other speak.

Sam takes the bottle and gives Bucky a questioning look.  “This won’t bother you?”

Shrugging, Bucky takes a sip of his soda.  “Nah.  My sobriety is my responsibility, and I’m not feeling particularly at-risk at the moment.”

“I don’t mind,” Sam says, pushing the bottle away.

“Look,” Bucky says, crowding into Sam’s space.  “I’m not gonna fuck you if you get drunk – I don’t do that –  and I’ll make you brush your teeth later because your beer breath smells like ass, but it ain’t gonna bother me if you want to loosen up a little.”

Sam shrugs and has a sip of his beer.  It’s one of those things that makes Bucky so irresistible – the way he cares for his partner and takes responsibility for himself.

The two of them relax while watching the people on the dance floor, but then a song that Sam knows from his childhood comes on, and he’s tugging Bucky out onto the dance floor.

The song fills his head with memories – his folks pushing the furniture back along the walls on a Saturday night, his Mama in stocking feet dancing close to his Daddy, the two of the looking at each other like they were nothing but love, love, love.

The song switches, the music slows, and then Bucky is there, pressing close to Sam, his hand at the low curve of Sam’s back, and they are chest to chest, swaying.  The song is soft and sweet, and that’s just how Sam feels.  He rests his cheek against Bucky’s, and feels the other man sigh, before cupping his hand against the back of Sam’s neck.  It’s beautiful, and he feels beautiful.

They last a few more songs before taking a break.  Bucky goes to the bar again for a cold bottle of beer, and Sam watches as the bartender blatantly hits on Bucky.  Just as the jealousy starts to rise, thick inside of Sam, he sees Bucky shake his head, then point over at Sam with a beatific smile on his face.

“What was that?” Sam asks, taking the bottle from Bucky and taking a sip.

Bucky smirks, shrugs.  “Wanted to know if I’d to come home with him.  I explained that I was with Mr. Fine as Fuck over here – that’s you, sweetheart – and then he asked if he could come home with us.”

Sam laughs, full and rich, like it’s the funniest damned thing he’s ever heard.  “Come on, baby,” he says, still laughing as he stands and takes Bucky’s hand in his.  “Let’s show him what he’s missing.”

By the time they get home, they’re both feeling a buzz from the headiness of showing one another off.  As the front door closes behind them, Bucky’s got his hands under Sam’s shirt, running blunt nails up his back as he mouths at Sam’s neck.

“Come on, now,” Sam says. “Come on and show me what you’ve got.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Bucky asks, and he’s already bending low, got his mouth on Sam’s abs, and then he’s on his knees, pulling Sam’s pants open.

“This,” Bucky says, shoving them down past his hips, his tongue moving along the ridge of the V between his abs and his pelvis.  “This right here.”  He presses Sam’s hips against the door, then bites at the ridge.  “Watching you tonight, the way you move with me,” he says.  “All I could think is how you look, how this feels under my hands when you’re riding me.”  He takes Sam into his mouth, then into his throat.

“You want me to ride you,” Sam whispers, transfixed.  He’s had enough of Bucky that he’s not dying from it anymore, the need bringing him too close, too fast.

But he hasn’t had _enough._  He’ll never have enough.

Bucky pulls off of his cock and Sam lets out a soft, “oh,” before he’s down, pulling Bucky back up to kiss him.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky says, and he’s got his hands on Sam’s ass, fingers dragging between his cheeks before he palms them, pulling Sam in.

“Yeah,” Sam answers, the friction of Bucky’s denim-clad cock is rough but he doesn’t back away.  He pulls at Bucky’s t-shirt and gets it off, tossing it far into the living room.

Looking down at Sam, Bucky’s blue eyes are dark.  “Gonna take you apart, sweetheart.  Gonna take you apart and make you feel so good.”  He kisses Sam, deep and dirty, the pulls back to push Sam’s pants all the way off.  He strokes his hands up the backs of Sam’s thighs, muttering under his breath before taking Sam’s mouth again.

“Gonna let me be good to you?” he asks, and Sam gives up any resistance.  He climbs into Bucky’s arms and lets himself be carried to his bedroom.

He lays back against the pillows and lets Bucky take over.  He watches as Bucky’s nails and teeth scrape over his skin, as Bucky’s tongue and lips whisper things he only half hears, and watches as Bucky makes his own hips work, in slow, swooping thrusts that have Sam crying out, again and again.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky says again, when they’re both breathing hard and flooded with endorphins.  “Someone like you on the dancefloor, that just shouldn’t be legal.”

And if he’s still smirking as he falls into sleep, well, who can blame him?  He’s spent the last hour feeling downright worshipped by the man he loves.  There’s nothing left to want.

.

Time is a demon.  It slips away, sleek and light, when you want it most, and coils in for long stretches when you don’t.  Sam wakes up one warm August morning to the realization that Bucky is leaving is just three days.

They’ve both worked hard to ignore the coming deadline, but as Sam grows tense with anxiety, Bucky snuffles in his sleep, pressing his face deeper into the crook of Sam’s neck.  Sam brings his arms around Bucky on reflex.  He wants to keep him close, keep him safe.  Keep him _home._

Maybe that’s the problem, Sam muses.  Bucky feels like home to him, but does he feel like that to Bucky?  These last weeks have been so easy, but now that the end is right in front of them, Sam wonders if maybe what he thinks he’s feeling is really all in his head.

“Can feel you worrying from here,” Bucky whispers.  “What’s up?”

The words “a client” are on Sam’s lips, but…but he’s not going to cheat himself like that anymore.

“I think,” he starts, and lets the words get right onto the middle of his tongue.  “I’m gonna miss you,” he says instead, and Bucky tightens himself all the way around Sam, pressing closer.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, and that…that’s not an answer, but it’s going to have to do.

It’s not enough for Bucky though, because he rises until he’s looking Sam in the eye.  “I don’t want you to be sad when I leave, Sam.  You’re amazing.  You’re – you have so much,” Bucky says, and presses his fingertips up against Sam’s ribs then rests them over Sam’s heart.  “You have so much to give someone, someone who deserves it.  You’ll find ‘em.”

Sam huffs a bitter laugh.  “You sound like my Mama used to do.”

Bucky rests his head on his hand and looks down at Sam.  They’re still pressed together, hip to chest, legs tangled together.  Sam’s still got his arm around Bucky’s waist.

“If I was just going to be gone a few weeks,” Bucky says.  “If was just going to be gone a few months, I might ask you for something, but I’m not.  I’m moving to California, Sam.  I won’t ask you to wait on me.  I don’t know if I’ll be back.”

Sam shrugs, because what’s he going to say to that?

“Promise me, Sam,” Bucky says, and leans down to press a kiss to Sam’s mouth.  “Promise you’ll keep looking.  Don’t waste…don’t waste your time on me.”

And it’s – this is it.  The closest either of them has come to naming this out loud.

“I like wasting my time on you,” he says, and leans up to press a kiss against Bucky’s mouth.

“Promise,” Bucky says again, so Sam groans and says he promises, and Bucky rewards him with more kisses.

“Your morning breath is disgusting,” Sam says.

“Look who’s talking,” Bucky replies.

Still, it’s another hour before they make to the bathroom to brush their teeth.  It’s another three before they leave the house.

“Hey,” Sam says, as they’re rising under the rapidly cooling shower.  “I’m meeting my sister for coffee at three.  You wanna come?”

Bucky stills, then stares at Sam.  The “you want me to meet your sister” goes unspoken, but it’s still there.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes.  “Yeah.”  He’s got a funny smile on his face, but it turns to a grimace as the last of the hot water dies out.  

Sam chuckles.  He hadn’t planned on this, but everything about it feels right.  He wants Sarah to see this, to see them.  He wants her to see how good it can be.

He wants her to see him happy.

.

When they get to the coffee shop, Sam’s barely got the introductions out of his mouth before Bucky’s grabbing for Jody.  He picks up the baby and Jody smiles at him, showing of a row of tiny, white teeth.  A dimple flashes and Bucky outright coos.  Sarah looks at Sam with one eyebrow raised, and he shakes his head in response.

It’s – it hits him right in the gut.  This man that he loves – he _loves_ – here with Sam’s family, holding onto Sam’s family.  He feels like he’s melting right into the floor.

The three of them make conversation, and Sam finally steals Jody back, holding the toddler on his lap and playing pat-a-cake games, listening to his mumbled words, trying to understand what he’s saying.  Sarah smiles at him – beams, really – and it’s good.  Peaceful.

Bucky excuses himself to the bathroom and Sarah leans over, her hand on Sam’s forearm.

“Oooh, big brother, he has got it _bad_ for you.”

Sam nearly chokes on his coffee, looking around himself to make sure that Bucky is out of earshot.

“Sarah!  No!  No, it’s not like that.  He’s not – he’s not like that.”

Sarah arches a brow at Sam and looks so much like their father that his heart pangs with it.

“Really,” Sam says.  “He’s – he’s moving to California.  In three days.  So even if he was, you know….”  It’s awkward, trying to explain to his little sister how he’s taking what he can get, for as long as Bucky will let him have it.

“Uh huh,” Sarah says.  “Well I can tell you one thing – a man that fine looks at me like that?  I wouldn’t be wasting my time in some coffee shop.  If he’s leaving in three days, what are you even doing here, Sam?”

And Sam feels soft all over because he’s missed this – missed Sarah and her smart mouth and how she always cuts right to the chase.  It’s bone deep, his love for her.  He’s so grateful that they’re working at getting close again.

Bucky comes back to the table and the three of them chatter a little more.  Sarah asks him about his plans for California, and is Sam imagining things, or does he look a little sad about leaving?  Sam tucks the thought away to look at later.

As they leave, Sarah gives him a hug, fierce and tight.  “Love you, Sammich,” she says.

“Love you, too, SareBear.”

They give each grins and part ways at the front of the shop.

“Sammich?” Bucky says, the moment they’re out of earshot.

“Man, shut up,” Sam says, but he can’t stop his face from smiling.

“Sammich,” Bucky says.  “Sam the manwich?  Sammmmmmich.”

Sam looks over at Bucky, laughing despite himself.  “I hate you.”

“Yeah, that’s cool.  Hey, so you wanna have sammiches for dinner?  It’s kind of hot out.”

“Did I mention that I hate you?  Because I really, really hate you.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that,” Bucky says, and the two of them continue toward the subway.

After that moment, the passing of time feels urgent.  Sam talks to Maria, takes the next few days off work, and the two of them become inseparable.

It’s good.  It’s _so_ good.  He wakes up with Bucky and falls asleep with him.  They do ridiculous, mundane things together: they go grocery shopping, each of them throwing unneeded things into the cart, making a game of finding the strangest things in the store while pretending that yep, this is a totally reasonable thing to buy.  They ride the subway leaning into one another and Bucky whispers the life stories of the other riders to Sam.  They cook together and wash dishes together, and at any time, either will glance at the other, and that’s all it takes for mouths and fingers to find skin, for hot gasps and moans of ‘baby’ or ‘sweetheart’ to fill the air.

Still, time uncoils, and then takes flight.

.

They get home late from a Mets game, and the August light is dying, casting the living room in shades of sienna and gold.  Bucky drops his keys into the bowl by the front door and it hits Sam hard:  this is their last night together.  This is their last chance.

He can’t stop thinking about Sarah and what she saw.  The more he thinks about it, the bigger fool he feels.  It’s right there in everything that Bucky does.  The way he touches Sam’s cheek each morning, that soft look in his eyes.  How he sleeps at night, wrapped around Sam, despite in the summer heat, clinging close, even in dreams.  It’s in all the casual affection Bucky shows: the easy kisses to the cheek, a squeeze of his hip, the way he tangles their fingers together when they’re doing nothing but watching TV.  Bucky is so easy with his affection, so physical.  Sam doesn’t understand how he never noticed it.

“Hey, what’s up?” Bucky asks, and Sam realizes he’s been spacing out, leaning against the back of the couch.

The word _nothing_ is on his tongue, but he swallows it.  Over in Afghanistan, it _was_ nothing, being what they called brave.  Sam had no problems walking head-on into danger.  He knew the potential consequences, but doing his job was more important than keeping himself safe.  Flesh and blood?  That’s nothing.

His heart, though.  His heart he’s guarded with ferocious care, tender with what aches the most.  He wonders now what that’s cost him.  Thinks that maybe now it’s time to really be brave.

“Why do I feel like we just missed each other?” he asks.

It’s terrifying.  He feels gutted and hopeful at once.  Not even combat felt like this.

Bucky’s eyes go soft, his mouth quirking up at one corner as he takes Sam’s face in his hands.  “Sam.  Sweetheart.  I’m right here.”  Bucky kisses him, pressing soft against Sam’s lips, while his hands hold him in place.

And he’s – he’s right.  God, he’s right.  Bucky is right here, and so is Sam.  They’ve both been right here, all along.

He looks at Sam with a furrowed brow.  The late August sun is reflecting into the room around them, casting Bucky in shades of gold.  It feels like the entire city stills around them.

Sam speaks, his voice soft, quiet.  “I love you.”

Bucky stares at him, his brow wrinkled, that little divot between his eyes and then his whole face goes over soft and incredulous.  He steps into Sam’s space, strokes a hand across Sam’s cheek, before pulling him in for a kiss.  It’s hard, no tongue, just Bucky pressing his lips against Sam’s, and then he’s got both hands on either side of Sam’s face, and he’s just holding him there, kissing and kissing and kissing.

When they finally break, Bucky keeps his hands on Sam’s face and presses their foreheads together.

“I love you,” he whispers.

It’s everything.

Sam smiles and Bucky grins.  “Jesus Christ we have shit timing.”

“Come on,” Sam says, taking Bucky’s hand and leading him to the bedroom.  “Gonna give you a reason to miss New York.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows but follows.  Sam wants to make light of it, make it another one of their jokes, but he can’t.  He means it.  He wants Bucky to _miss_ New York.

The sun is setting, painting the walls of Sam’s room pink and orange through the half-open blinds.  As Sam tugs off Bucky’s t-shirt, he watches as the pale skin takes on the same hues.

Nipping at Bucky’s mouth, Sam sucks his lower lip and runs his tongue along it.  He drags his mouth across the scar on Bucky’s bicep – the one from the drug-deal gone bad that finally got him into treatment.  

“I know I never told you,” Sam says, feeling ashamed.  “I’m proud of you.  It wasn’t easy, I know.”

Bucky looks at him, his face full of surprise before his mouth softens into a smile.  

“Thanks,” Bucky says.  

When they finally make it to the bed, it’s just kissing and kissing and kissing.  They grind against one another, their clothes coming off here and there, until they’re just skin on skin, panting at one another, breathing each other’s breath.

“Gotta be inside you, Sam,” Bucky breathes, and Sam knows.  He _knows._

Crawling up Bucky, Sam reaches for the nightstand, for the lube and a condom, and it surprised when Bucky shifts beneath him, pushing Sam up while Bucky slide down.

“Gimme that,” he says, holding his hand out for the lube.  Sam is on all fours on the bed, Bucky under him, and when Bucky leans up and takes Sam’s dick into his mouth, Sam breathes out a rough, soft cry.

“Already wet for me, aren’t you sweetheart?” Bucky asks, before taking Sam back into his mouth, tonguing his slit, and Sam’s vision whites out for a moment.

Pulling off, Bucky spreads lube on his fingers before pressing one against Sam’s hole.

He continues to lick and suck Sam’s cock while pressing one and then more fingers into Sam.  With one hand, he pulls at Sam’s hip, but it’s too much.  He can’t.

“Come on,” Bucky says, and Sam feels him sink two fingers deep inside of him.  “I want you to.”

Sam catches his breath, then thrusts forward just a little.  A shallow little stroke into Bucky’s mouth, and they both groan.  Bucky thrusts his fingers into Sam deeper, and pushes back, then forward again.

It’s dizzying, fucking into Bucky’s mouth, then fucking back onto his fingers.  He keeps his strokes shallow, and sets a steady rhythm, Bucky’s tongue swirling around the head of Sam’s cock when he pulls back, then pushing deep, filling Sam up with his fingers, all the while making these soft, sweet little moans like it’s his body that’s being taken apart.  It’s too much.

Bucky finds Sam’s prostate and presses.  Sam shouts, the lightning hot pleasure racing through his veins. As he thrusts forward, Bucky’s right there with his slick, hot mouth and his pressing, pushing fingers.  Sam doesn’t even have time to feel his orgasm build.  He feels good, he feels so good, and then oh, God, he’s dying, pushing into Bucky’s mouth and coming hard and fast before falling down onto his elbows, thighs shaking.

Another press against his prostate has Sam whimpering, and he lets his head and chest fall to the bed.  He has no place to go – Bucky has his mouth on Sam’s dick still, suckling sweet and soft, and his fingers in Sam’s ass, and he’s crying out, whimpering, and God, his lashes are wet, he can feel it.

He grips the sheets beneath him, straining against the overstimulation and it’s terrible but it feels so fucking good.  He’s not thinking, he’s nothing, just taking the onslaught of pleasure that’s so sharp it’s almost pain.  Almost.

Finally, finally, Bucky stops, stills his mouth and eases his fingers out of Sam.  Sam falls to the side and Bucky crawls up the bed after him, setting soft kisses on Sam’s skin, gentle touches that help Sam come down, help him come back to himself.

Sam’s still breathing hard when Bucky lays beside him, sprinkling kisses across Sam’s back and shoulders, mouthing soft against the back of Sam’s neck.

“You’re actually trying to kill me,” Sam says, starting to feeling fucked out already.

“Nah.  Maybe just giving you a reason to want to come to LA.”

Sam’s breath catches in his throat at that.  It the acknowledgement that Sam needed; what’s happening here, what’s between them?  It isn’t anywhere near over.

Bucky strokes along Sam’s thigh, up to his hip and squeezes.  It reminds Sam of that first time, when he’d been incredulous and so turned on.

Would he have done it again, he wonders?  If he’d known how this would all play out, would he still have turned over, opened up his mouth to Bucky, opened up his body?  His heart?

He doesn’t know.

“You ready?” Bucky asks, and Sam lets out a breathy sigh, nods.

“Yeah.  Yeah, baby.  Come on, now.”

He hears Bucky fumbling with the condom, and then the squeak of the cap opening for the lube.  Then his fingers are back inside of Sam, and he’s so loose already, arching his back so that Bucky can get a little deeper.

“Jesus, Sam,” Bucky says.  “Jesus.”

He lays across Sam’s back and eases inside.  Sam’s body puts up the briefest bit of resistance and then he’s being filled, and then he’s full, and his cock twitches because it’s just so good.  He loves the feel of being stretched open, filled up, having another person inside of him.  It’s a gorgeous feeling, so safe, so wanted.

Which isn’t to say he doesn’t like topping – he does.  Sometimes he wants – needs – to pound into someone hard and fast or bring them off soft and slow; he likes the responsibility of it.  But right now, Bucky wants to love on him, and Sam is going to let him.

Sam cants his hips, taking Bucky deeper, and Bucky presses forward.  He laces the fingers of his left hand with Sam’s and brings his right hand around to fondle Sam’s soft cock.

“Want you to come with me,” Bucky says, pressing a kiss behind Sam’s ear.

Sam chuckles.  “In case you missed it, I’m not eighteen anymore.  I don’t bounce back right like that anymore.”

“S’okay, baby,” Bucky says.  “I can wait.”

And he does.  He keeps his cock nestled right up inside of Sam and he showers him with kisses, soft and dry and sweet, or open mouthed, hot, with teeth scraping.  He doesn’t really move inside of Sam, just rocks deeper every now and then, presses his hips until Sam whimpers, then eases off to touch and stroke and kiss some more.

“You’re so good, sweetheart,” Bucky says.  “Like you were made for me, you fit me so nice.”

Sam whines at that because it’s good, it’s so good hearing Bucky talk to him like that.  He feels himself reacting, and Bucky understands, talks a little more.  His voice is low, a tickle against Sam’s ear, as he whispers filth and Sam gets hard.

“Fuck me,” he groans.  “Come _on,_ baby.  Fuck me.”

“Oh, is that what you want?” Bucky asks, drawing back only to slide in fast.

Sam grunts and Bucky palms his cock, then wraps and hand around it, stroking Sam as he pushes into him.

It’s – yes – it’s exactly what he wants right now.  Sam cants his hips again, pushing back, trying to meet Bucky thrust for thrust, but each time he does, Bucky chases with his hand on Sam’s dick and he’s so caught up between the push and pull of it.

He’s lost, he thinks, and it’s good - no, it’s perfect – and there’s nothing more Sam wants than the feeling of Bucky all over him, pressed up against his back, hands touching him, breath in his ear, and deep, deep inside of him.

He draws a sharp breath as Bucky presses his fingers against Sam’s stretched rim, feeling the way he slides in and out of Sam’s body.

“Oh, Jesus,” Bucky groans.  “Jesus Christ.”

Yeah, Sam thinks.  Yeah, exactly.

Before long, Bucky’s hips begin to stutter.  He presses deeper, strokes Sam harder, until Sam is crying out, babbling that it’s so good, that he needs more, and Bucky gives it to him.  It isn’t until he comes and hears the ragged groan that Bucky lets out that he realizes how long Bucky’d been holding on.  He cries Sam’s name, his whole body latching tight to Sam, clutching him close as he comes and comes and comes.

When he finally pulls out, Sam gasps with the sensation of being empty again, no longer warm and full and _close._ Sam can’t find it in himself to move while Bucky disposes of the condom, and he’s glad for it, because when Bucky comes back, he slides right back up behind Sam and cuddles him close.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.  “I am really going to miss New York.”

Sam doesn’t even try to fight the smile that spreads across his face, and between one breath and the next, he falls down, deep into sleep.

They wake once, in the middle of the night.  Foraging for food, they trade bites of peanut butter sandwiches for kisses before falling back into bed and back into each other.  The sunrise paints the walls pink before they fall asleep again.

Standing at the front door the next morning, Sam is hit again with the feeling that his heart is breaking.  It hurts – like a hand got right up inside of his chest, got hold of the muscle and is squeezing hard.

Looking back, Sam knows it couldn’t have ended any other way.  Everything had to play out just the way it did – from that first drunk, angry kiss to this last one: soft, bitter, and sweet on his lips.

“Be good,” Sam says.

Bucky switches the guitar he’s holding from one hand to the other and shrugs.  “Always am.”  He gives Sam that cocky, crooked grin, and Sam finds himself grinning back.

“Yeah, okay.  You keep telling yourself that.”

The words are routine, rote from when they were lovers.  It stings, because even as his mouth forms the words, he knows he’ll never say them again, knows the next time he sees Bucky, they’ll be half-strangers, half somebody-I-used-to-knows to each other.

It’s nothing – nothing – he ever wanted.  But looking back?  Yeah, Sam knows it couldn’t have ended any other way.

He doesn’t walk Bucky to the street, doesn’t sit with him in the cab, and doesn’t go with him to the airport.  Instead, he stays in bed for the next two days, letting himself wallow in his heartbreak and the fading smell of Bucky on his pillow, on his skin.  

When Steve gets home a week later, he doesn’t ask about Bucky and Sam isn’t talking.  They get back into their usual grind, with Steve prepping for classes and working on a new comic, and Sam getting ready to take his last two classes and finish his clinical hours at the VA.  Neither of them mentions Bucky, and Sam figures it’s just as well.  He’s probably California dreaming anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? An early chapter? YES! Because chapter 8 became unwieldy and thus will be TWO chapters. Next chapter will update either Friday (probably) or Monday, with the final chapter going up as soon as I finish it. :)
> 
> Also, you guys! iwillnotbecaged started a new Sam/Steve fic titled ["No touch can do half as much,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12298158/chapters/27956595) and it. is. awesome. :D
> 
> See you soon with more Sam and Sam recs. :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buffy is the greatest - this fic would be a flaming hot mess without her. Loads of love to Ty as well. :) 
> 
> This chapter is text message heavy. A name followed by … means the person is typing something. … in the middle of the conversation means indicates time passing. XXX means a day or more has passed.

**_September_ **

Everything’s different, with Bucky gone.  At least before, even if they weren’t together, Sam still saw him now and then.  Heard about him at least.  Now he’s just…he’s just gone.

It hurts.  It hurts in ways Sam didn’t know he could hurt.  He’s never had this before – never been so far in love with someone and felt them love him back.  Never knew that easy peace before – waking up tucked into someone’s arms, feeling safe and loved and happy.

He’s been in love before, and he’s had relationships before.  He and Misty gave it an honest-to-God try for over six months before calling it quits.  He’d wanted it – he’d wanted it to work with her so bad.  On paper, they were perfect – similar backgrounds, grew up in the same hood, both of them wanting to make the world a better place.  Misty was gorgeous and smart and funny, and Sarah had been over the moon when Sam finally brought Misty around for dinner.  They were good together and good for each other.  In the end though, there was something missing for each of them, and they’d broken things off, promising to stay friends.  Sam still catches lunch with her every now and then, when her busy detective’s schedule allows.

Sam pulls out his phone to text Steve about dinner.  Since he got back from Chicago, Steve has been…off.  He’s coming and going at all hours and when Sam asks him if he’s seeing someone new (because they’ve been friends for a while now, and Sam knows what Steve falling for a new girl looks like), Steve always says no.

So Sam’s not really sure what’s going on with Steve, but he’s looking forward to finding out.

Later that night, Steve’s phone pings and Steve opens it, a soft smile tugging at his face.

“Okay, come on man, who’s the girl?” Sam asks.

Steve puts the phone down, looking guilty.  “I’m not seeing anyone,” he says, and Sam just gives him that “uh huh, sure,” face.

“Really,” Steve says.  “There’s – it’s this guy I met, at the Institute?  He’s giving me some ideas for a new series, and Peggy and I are going to try to flesh it out into a script.  His ideas are amazing.  He’s a genius, really.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at that.  It’s unusual for Steve to speak so highly of anyone. 

“Okay,” Sam says, but in his very best “I am not buying any of your bullshit” voice.

Steve grins.

A few days later, Sam’s at the table, pulling together his bibliography when Steve sits down.

“Can I ask you-?” Steve starts, then stops.

“What’s up man?”

“It’s just – no.  Nothing.  It’s nothing.”

Steve walks away and Sam stares after him.

Two days later, it’s some of the same:

“Sam, did you…?”

Sam raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t – never mind.”

And then the next day:

“It’s just – I mean – when…how?”

Sam’s finally had enough.

“Dude.  Are you having a stroke?”

Steve blushes to his roots.

“Look, whatever it is,” Sam starts, “just say it.  You know I’ve got your back.”

“It’s just – I don’t –“

Sam pointed looks at Steve, wearing his best unamused face.

“When did you know you were gay?” he asks, turned red and red and red.

Sam sits back because of all the things – all the things – that is the last thing he thought he’d hear Steve say.

“You do realized I date women, too, right?  Misty? Remember how she all but lived here that spring?”

And that’s what it takes to break Steve out of the shell of awkwardness that he’s thrown over his shoulders.

“Yeah, she was – she was great, Sam.  Just – how did you know?  Like, how do you know it’s more than just friendship?  With a guy?”

Sam takes his time answering.  He doesn’t want to mock Steve, not really, but come  _ on, _ Steve.  It’s not that damn hard.

“Well, let’s start with something easy.  Do you want to kiss him?”

Steve pinks again and Sam thinks he’s got his answer.

“He wants to kiss me,” Steve says, and nope, wait, this is something else entirely.

“If you don’t want to kiss him back, man, you need to say so and he needs to respect that.”

“He does!” Steve says.  “He – he did.  I mean, we –“

“Hey, deep breath.  Use your words,” Sam says, and smiles gentle.

“He kissed me,” Steve says, and lets out a deep breath.  “And I kind of freaked out and then he stopped.”

“Okay, that’s good.  That’s good.”  Sam’s mind goes a lot of different places, and most of them  _ aren’t _ good.

“But now,” Steve starts and Sam has to take a deep breath himself.  He switches into “active listening mode” and gives Steve the space to say what he needs to say without Sam reacting to it.

“You know nothing you say now is going to change our friendship, right?” Sam says, because Steve needs to know that.  Sam needs him to know that.

Another line of tension releases from Steve’s shoulders as he nods.

“I told him I’m straight and he backed right off.”  Steve studies his hands, folding and unfolding them.  “But I think I liked it.  I think…think I might want to do it again.”

Sam nods.  “Okay.  Have you told him that?”

Steve blushes all over again.  Man, this kid.  “No.  What if I don’t like it?  I don’t want – I don’t want to lead him on.  And if it doesn’t go anywhere, then, isn’t that kind of mean?  I don’t want to be that guy and just, you know, use him like that.”

“Hold up,” Sam says, because Steve.   _ Steve. _  “Have you talked about any of this with him?”

And Steve – God bless him – he looks so confused.

“Shouldn’t I have this figured out by now?” he asks.

“Depends.  Do you think sexuality is static?” Sam returns, then holds up a hand when he sees Steve start to answer.  “Do you think, if sexuality is static, that you would be thinking so hard on kissing a man that you’re wearing a hole through the floor with your pacing?”

Steve ducks his head and looks away.

“What I’m saying, Steve, is talk to him about what you’re thinking.  If this is something you want to explore, then doesn’t it make sense to talk to the person you want to explore it with?”

Steve shrugs.  “I guess I just thought I would have known by now if I liked, you know, guys.”

“Yeah, well, I do know at least two people who would have happily been your guinea pig.”

Steve grins, then breaks into a full smile.  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure if it wasn’t for those two people, I wouldn’t even be considering this.”

Sam’s returning smile is soft, fond.

“Thanks, Sam.”

Sam shrugs, but when he gets to his room, he pulls out his phone.  

.

SW:  You talk to Steve lately?

BB:  ??  No?

SW: Be nice.  That’s all I’m saying.

BB: ??

.

\----

BB: !!!!!

SW: ?

BB:  STEVE!!!!

SW:  I know, right?

BB:  !!!

BB: Hs a dmbass. Clda had u.

SW: LOL!  I said the same thing about you.

BB: cn u blv tht idiot? <headscratching emoji>

SW:  I know!  He is so gross right now.

BB: he GUSHED.  Nvr hrd tht b4.

SW: Right?  Also, Barnes, learn how to use the predictive text at least.  You type in hieroglyphics.

BB: fk off.

.

Xxx

.

BB: mkng him buy me an <island emoji>

SW: ???

BB: Stark. He cn affrd it.

SW: <eyeroll emoji>

.

Sam is at the sink doing the dinner dishes when Steve brings his plate over.  He’s lost in thought, so he doesn’t notice until Steve hip-checks him.  Sheepish, he looks up and smiles.

“I miss him too,” Steve says.

Sam starts, then smiles, sheepish.  “Sorry, man.  Didn’t realize I was so transparent.”

Steve shrugs.  “Honestly, before now, I don’t think I would have understood.  Now though....” Steve drifts off, a silly smile on his face, cheeks pinking.  “God, though, the way he used to talk about you.”

Drawing back, Sam looks at Steve, puzzled.  “Tony?”

Steve laughs.  “No!  Bucky – he used to go on and on.”

Sam can’t get the befuddlement off his face.

“Oh, come on, Sam.  He had a crush on you for years, you had to know that.”

And it’s - he wants to cry all over again, and it must show on his face, because Steve grabs him up, pulls him tight into a hug.  

“Hey,” Steve says.  “Hey.  You know, no one’s dead.  Anything can still happen.”

Sam pulls back, laughing.  “You kidding me right now?  Who are you and what have you done with Steve Rogers?”

Steve pulls away, looking down, face flushing bright.    

Chuckling, Sam says, “Damn.  Never thought I’d see the day.”

Steve shrugs.  “I don’t know.  He drives me crazy.”

Sam’s smile is rueful and sweet.  “The best ones always do.”

**_._ **

**_October_ **

.

“Hey Sam?  Any ideas on where to rent a tux?”

“What?”  Sam looks up from his laptop to find Steve pacing.

“Tony’s asked me to be his date for a fundraiser being hosted by Stark Industries, and I need a tux.”

Sam’s pretty sure his eyebrows couldn’t get any higher up into his hairline if he tried.

“I…have no idea.”

Steve flaps his arms, then pulls out his phone, asking it for nearby tuxedo rental shops, and Sam tries to get back to editing his thesis.  There’s not a lot left to do on it, but every time he thinks he’s ready to put it to bed, he finds another little slip, and has to comb through it again.

Steve’s still on the phone when the doorbell rings, so Sam, eager for a break, gets up to get it.

A man in a uniform holds out a garment bag.  “Delivery for Steven Rogers?  That you?”

“Nah,” Sam says, nodding his head toward Steve.  “I can sign for it though.”

After he’s signed and Steve’s hung up the phone, they hang the bag on the back of one of the dining room chairs and open it up.  There’s a tux inside, midnight blue with black lapels, and Sam knows that Steve is going to look devastating in it.

There’s a card tucked into the breast pocket:  “Can’t wait to see this on you.  T.”

Steve flushes and stammers.  “I can’t – this is too much.  Right?  It’s too much.”

Sam grins.  “I don’t think Tony Stark and the words ‘too much’ have ever been introduced.”

Steve grins before the smile goes soft.  “I can’t keep it.  But at least now I know what he’d like.”

Stroking his hand across the lapel, Steve zips up the bag and pulls out his phone again.

.

SW: You’re an asshole.

BB: ??

SW: You never asked me on a date.

BB:  …

BB:  U wldnt’ve sd ys.

SW:  You don’t know that.

BB:  :/  <\-- ths face? Ths my bitch, pls face.

…

…

SW:  There was a point where I would have said yes.

BB: b4 or aftr u thot I ws fking my spnsr?

…

…

SW:  Learn how to type.  And use emojis.  <unimpressed emoji> <\--See this face?  This is MY ‘bitch, please’ face.

.

Xxx

.

BB:  hws mdtrms?

SW: English, motherfucker. Do you speak it?

…

SW: It’s going good.  Thanks for asking. <smiling emoji>

.

**_November_ **

.

SW:  Your boy tried cooking eggplant.  Is there something genetically wrong with him that he thinks eggplant is food?

BB:  Is ths euphemism? <eggplant emoji> <devil emoji>

SW:  <burnteggplantparmesean.img>

BB: dropped on head as a bb?  Gross.

SGR: it wasn’t tht bad!!  <angry emoji>

SW: We had to throw away the pan. <unimpressed emoji>

BB: nt the 1st time th’s hapn’d

SGR: You guys suuuuuuck. <eggplant emoji>

SW: You are so fucking wrong, Rogers.

SGR: <big grin emoji>

.

Xxx

.

JBB:  I wanted to

SW:  ??

JBB:  wanted to ask you out.  Sorry I didn’t.

SW: …

…

SW:  Yeah, ok.  Thanks.

.

XXX

.

“All we’re saying,” Suit One starts and Bucky groans to himself.

“Barnes, all we’re saying is think about it.   _ She Said Stay _ is a hit waiting to happen, but  _ HE Said Stay _ isn’t even going to chart.  And, before you say it,” Suit Two says, “we understand about artistic integrity.  Just think about it.”

“If you knew anything about integrity, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Bucky’s manager, Rosie, makes a noise but Bucky quells her with a look.  “I’m not going to be coy, or pretend to be someone I’m not.  Don’t ask me to do that.  Let me ask you – have you even thought about what it’s going to look like to the fans when it comes out in six weeks or six months that I’m gay?  You’re asking me to lie, on tape, to anyone and everyone who has ever believed in me.  I won’t do it.”

“Barnes,” Suit One starts again.  “When you’re on the coasts, it’s easy to forget  - but the rest of America doesn’t always see things the way we do out here.”

“All due respect, I’m not making music for the rest of America.  I’m not even making music for you. And if this is what it looks like to get paid for my music, then I was better off before I signed your damned contract.”

“Speaking of,” Rosie pipes up, “the contract is clear.  Barnes has final say on content for this album.  You can choose the studio musicians, the producers, you have full control over touring, PR schedules, all of it, but Barnes retained full artistic control over the content.  And you know that.  So why are we here, gentlemen?”

Suit one tosses a folder down the table and throws his hands up.  “Just trying to make a hit record, that’s why I thought we were here.  Guess I’m the only one who likes money.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.  “The music stands on its own. And I’d rather eat ramen for the rest of my life than sell out.  Don’t bring me this shit again.”  He looks at Rosie.  “Can we go?”

Rosie nods and gathers her things.  “Sorry, Brock,” she says to Suit Two.  “You knew this wouldn’t fly.”

Brock shrugs.  “Had to try.  I’ll let Pierce know.”

“Lucky you.  Studio still set for next week?”

Brock nods.  “Yeah.  Trying to work in a few names, see if we can lend it some cred right out of the gate.  He doesn’t want  _ any _ writing support?  We can get Johnson or Romero – both of them owe us a favor.”

Bucky has time to see Rosemary shake her head before he’s out of the office and pushing the elevator button to get out of there. 

He knew working with a studio to make an album would be challenging.  He and Johnny had talked for a long time about whether this was something Bucky felt up to doing, but in the end, Bucky knew he would regret not trying for the rest of his life. 

Of course, he hadn’t counted on Sam, on how much harder he would fall for Sam, or on Sam finally, finally, wanting him back.

Those last days in New York were heaven and hell in one: he could stay there, he could love Sam, and he could let Sam love him back.  He’d wanted that – god – for so long.  But if he stayed he knew he’d regret missing the opportunity to see if he had what it took to be a musician.  He wanted that validation – his name on a record, his songs on the radio.  Instead, he got to walk away from the one man he’d ever loved.  He got to regret that instead.

Bucky sighs as he pushes out of the sterile, air conditioned building and into the California sun.  LA is like an alien planet.  Bucky’s just trying to remember how to breathe.

.

JBB: h8 ths plc

ROGERS: ?  whts up?

JBB: quote “does it have to be HE?”

ROGERS:  <frowny face emoji> Srry man.

…

ROGERS: Does it tho?

JBB: <angry emoji>

ROGERS: jst checking u thot it thru

JBB: NO! not LYING abt who I am.

ROGERS:  <smiling emoji> good.  Love u. stay strng.

JBB:  thx

.

Xxxx

.

SW:  You’re not coming back for the holidays?

JBB:  <frowny face emoji> <broke emoji>

SW:  Sorry, man.

JBB:  s’ok.  Lvng th drm. Strvng artist.

JBB: <cupboardfulloframen.img>

.

xxx

.

SW:  Your first name is James and you go by BUCKY?

JBB: Blame becs

SW: Blame?  I’m buying her flowers.

JBB: <angry face emoji> Stay. Away. From. Becca.

.

Xxx

.

SW: Do you have Becca’s number?

SGR:  Barnes?

SW: The one and only.

JBB:  DON’T DO IT STEVE!

SGR: ??

SW: Trust.

SGR: <laughing/crying emoji>  Can’t wait.

.

Xxx

BB:  Congrats on new job! <party emoji> <big smile emoji> <champagne emoji>

SW:  Thanks!  Steve and Tony are taking me out tonight!  You’re missing out, Barnes.

BB: Dn’t I kno it. Full time?

SW: With benefits.  Dream job at the VA.  Makes the last few years feel worth it, you know?”

BB:  u dsrv it.  Grats again.

.

**_December_ **

.

THEBeccinator: You’re an asshole.

BuckyMcBuckFace: ???

THEBeccinator:  You know what you did.

.

Xxx

.

JBB: wat did u sy to bx

SW: ???

JBB: nvr tlkng 2u again

Sstr Stlr: ???

JBB:  I h8 u

.

Xxx

.

JBB:  <buckyinshortsandflipflops.img>

Sstr Stlr:  Oh, you’re talking to me again?

JBB:  No.  How’s that six inches of snow going? <buckyinsunglasses.img>

Sstr Stlr: I hate you.

JBB:  mrry xmas

**_._ **

Bucky puts his phone down and grabs a cold seltzer from the fridge.  It’s Christmas Day and the forecast is for a toasty 86 degrees.  He sits down on his couch/bed and settles in for a nice long pout.

Becca woke him up with a phone call at ten a.m. to wish him a Merry Christmas.  In another hour, she’ll be sitting down to Christmas dinner with his folks, Steve, Tony Stark and one Samuel Wilson. 

Sighing, Bucky tries not to be bitter, but it’s hard.  He loves Christmas mornings with his family.  Becca still bounces into his room first thing, jumping on him, setting the dog off, and being an all-around menace. 

They fight over who gets to be Santa and hand out presents, and Becca always steals the orange from the toe of his stocking. In turn, he steals the maple sugar candy from hers, and they’re both rocking a pretty solid sugar high by the time the sun has properly risen.  By noon, the entire house smells delicious, with the pies on a cooling rack, and the ham and cheese potatoes in the oven.  Bucky’s mouth waters just thinking about it. 

He feels divided and not-quite-real. 

He feels like his life is being lived without him.  His best friend, the man he’s secretly (and not-so-secretly) pined after for the last several years, together with Ma and Pop and Becks, having Christmas with snow and cold and ham and pie.

It’s not that he’s lonely – he’s not. And he could have gone home if he’d really wanted to.  Ma, Becs and Steve, all three of them offered to buy him a ticket home.  Ma practically insisted.  Steve told him that Tony had offered his private jet if that would make him feel any better.  (Yeah, like Bucky’s going to do that kind of damage to the world just so he can go home for Christmas.  No chance.)

When that junkie stabbed him, the doctors said he’d be lucky to be able to make a fist with his left hand.  His folks immediately took out a second on the house and paid for the best physical therapist they could find.  It was only because of them that Bucky had full use of his left hand.  When he got the first check from his record deal, he’d immediately signed it over to his folks, and even though they said he didn’t need to pay them back, there was no chance in hell that he was letting that debt stand.

So what if he’s living in a converted garage with a cubicle shower and a two-burner stove?  Yeah, he eats more ramen that was probably healthy, but he shops at the ethnic market and adds as many veggies as he can.  Running is still free, so he’s keeping in shape, and one day – and he _has_ to believe this – one day it’ll all be worth it.  One day he’s gonna hear his songs on the radio and someone’s gonna pay him good money for all the shit inside of his head.

One day.

.

**_January_ **

.

SW: <saminatux.img> Happy New Year from Stark Tower

JBB: …

SW: ??

JBB:  Fuuuuuck me.

SW: <smirking emoji> If you’d come home for the holidays, I woulda.

JBB: O I’m cming

SW: Nasty.

JBB:  Alwys

**_._ **

**_February_ **

.

“Hot date?”  Sam looks over Steve’s shoulder and meets his eyes in the mirror.  Steve’s straightening his tie and casting a critical eye over his outfit – dark washed jeans, light blue button up, dark blue blazer.

“This is terrible, isn’t it?” Steve asks.

Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to his room, returning with a soft gray, long-sleeved t-shirt.  “Lose the tie,” Sam says.  “And dude, buy some shirts that actually fit.”

Steve gives him a confused look, and Sam shoots back his best “bitch, please,” face.

Rolling his eyes, Steve grins. 

“What about you?  Nothing special going on?”

Sam shrugs.  “Nah, just…working away.”

“Huh.  Oh – I’m not going to be here next weekend.  Tony said he’s got something planned, so you’ll have the place to yourself.”

Sighing, Sam says, “Yeah, okay.  Thanks.”

He goes back to his room, lays down on the bed and closes his eyes.

He knows they said they weren’t going to wait for each other.  For all he knows, Bucky’s gone and never coming back.  And maybe he should be working on moving on, but it’s hard when Bucky’s right there.  All Sam has to do is pull his phone out of his pocket, and he’s got Bucky grinning at him from a picture, or his terrible sense of humor in a text. 

Sam thumbs through their recent text messages and sighs again. 

He still hurts with wanting Bucky.  It was too much – having Bucky, knowing that Bucky loved him – loves him? – and not being able to hold him.  Sam wants the silly things, the sappy things. He wants to ask Bucky to be his Valentine and get a kiss for an answer.  He wants to take Bucky out and show him off. See this, everyone?  This is  _ my _ man. 

There’s a shirt in the closet, a dark gray Henley with three buttons down the front that Sam hadn’t been able to stop himself from buying, just in case.  It’s still wrapped in red and green paper, a gold bow on the front.  He’d tucked it in his backpack when he went to Christmas dinner with the Barnes’s, just in case.

His disappointment churns to anger and Sam wonders just what the fuck he’s doing to himself.  Is he always going to be pining after Bucky Barnes?

.

SW: What’re we doing, Barnes?

JBB: ???

SW: Fuck.  Nevermind.

JBB:  ??!!!??

…

JBB: Dude, fuck Hallmark.  Just…fuck them.

JBB: Sam, don’t do this to yourself.

…

SW: ??

JBB:  You should go out on a date, Sam.  You deserve

JBB:  You deserve <heart emoji> <celebrate emoji> <cake emoji> <eggplant emoji> <peach emoji> <champagne emoji>

…

SW: Fuck you.

…

JBB: We said we weren’t waiting for each other.  We promised.  Sam.

…

JBB:  Do you want me to tell you I’m not waiting? Because I’m not, Sam.  We said.

…

JBB: I’m sorry.  I don’t know what to do here.

SW: Forget it.

…

Bucky: Go be nice to Sam.

Rogers: ??

Bucky:  pls?

Rogers: Okay?

Bucky: Vday is nxt week.

Rogers: Shit.  Yeah, thx. On it.

**_._ **

**_March_ **

.

SW: <birdflying.img> Falcons are back.

JBB: <smiling emoji> read thyll com bak evry yr

SW: Dumb birds should move to the country.

JBB: gld thyr bak. U mssd thm.

SW: <eyeroll emoji> How’s things?

JBB: <frowning emoji> ths plc is bs.  Hrry up & w8. Trffic 4 erythng.

SW:  ?? Terrific for everything?

JBB:  TRAFFIC!  Sux.

SW:  Sorry, man. How’s the post production on the album?

JBB: <grumpy emoji>

SW: <frowning emoji>

.

Xxx

.

SW: Meet Angela Darlene Casper:

SW: <samholdingbaby.img>

JBB:  Dmn lk at tht smile!  <grinning emoji>

JBB:  Congrats!

SW:  Thank you!  <grinning emoji>

SW:  Not a smile tho – babies can’t smile til they’re older.

JBB:  Nt tlkng bt baby. <smiling emoji> Tell mama cngrts.

SW: …

SW:  Thanks.  Will do.

.

Xxx

.

SW: Happy Birthday.  You doing anything good?

JBB:  Steve & Tony coming out 4 wknd.  Plying a shw.

SW:  Jealous.  It’s still ass cold here.

JBB:  <sunglasses emoji>

SW:  Dork.

…

JBB: Thanks.

.

He doesn’t mean for it to be the worst birthday of his life.  But as he sits at the ridiculously overpriced bar and orders the ridiculously overpriced oysters while Tony and Steve sip ridiculously overpriced champagne, Bucky can’t help but feel like this is the worst birthday of his life.

It’s just – when Steve said he and Tony were coming out for the weekend, Bucky got his hopes up.  He thought…maybe they’ll bring Sam with.  Maybe when Tony and Steve come down that set of stairs from the (private) plane, maybe Sam will be there too.

Bucky can’t help it.  He’d felt crushed, even as Steve grabbed him up into a hug, even as he shook Tony’s hand, even as he unwrapped a box with a delivery slip for what he later learns is a state-of-the-art digital home studio set up that cost thousands of dollars. 

(To his credit, Bucky refused it twice before saying thank you.  He did have  _ some _ manners.)

But the thing on his mind - the only thing he can think, is that Sam must not have wanted to come.

Worst birthday of his life.

.

Xxx

.

SW: <eggsinnest.img> :D  Four eggs!

JBB:  <big grin emoji>

**_._ **

**_April_ **

SW: I’m not waiting either.  Just…thought you should know.

JBB: K

**_._ **

Because, yeah, that’s fair.  Fair that Sam’s not waiting on Bucky to return to New York.  Fair that Sam’s not going to hold his heart in reserve.  Fair that he’ll go on a date, kiss somebody new.  It’s perfectly fucking fair.

Bucky sighs and sits back on his heels, waits for the make-up girl to come back over and touch him up.  They’re on day two of shooting this fucking video and he wants to scream at someone.  Instead, he smiles and says please and thank you in all the right places. He signs an autograph for the guy who styled his hair, and pretends to play the wrong guitar until the director yells ‘cut’ again, and Bucky’s left to cool his jets until he hears ‘action’ again. 

The song is great.  Every song on the album is exactly what he’d wanted, every single note perfect.

The album still sucks though.  Every fucking note is terrible, because every fucking note is Sam, and Sam doesn’t want him.  Sam is going on a date.  Sam is not waiting.

Doesn’t matter that Bucky is.  Doesn’t matter that the idea of even holding hands with someone who isn’t Sam makes him sick to his stomach.

Bucky sighs.  It’s for the best.  It’s what he wanted.

Isn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, yesterday: I'm just gonna add a paragraph or two onto this chapter and it will be ready to post.  
> Me, six hours later: So, I guess I added about four thousand words. I should probably break this into two chapters, huh?
> 
> Which means there are two more chapters to go. Next one will probably go up Friday/Monday somewhere in there. Last one will be by the end of next week.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wherein these idiots start to use their words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alll the love for buffy, who is amazing and wonderful and holds my needy, needy hand.

**_May_ **

.

THEBeccantator:  So. Fucking. Proud.

JBB: ??

THEBeccinator:  <barnes.hesaidstay.vid>

JBB:  <blushing emoji> so bad.

THEBeccinator: Mom’s over the moon.  Ben on the phone all dy w aunts csns erryone

.

Xxx

.

Rogers: DUDE!  Dude.  dude.

JBB:  u kno u lv me

Rogers:  ur mom & sis already clld me

Rogers:  U R legit rock star

JBB:  shut the fuck up.

JBB:  <sunglasses emoji> <star emoji>

Rogers:  Proud of you, Buck.  Love you.

.

Xxx

.

SW:  You think you cute.

JBB:  ??

SW:  <barnes.hesaidstay.vid>

JBB: <blushing emoji>

…

SW:  u wrote that here

SW: …

SW:  I recognize it

JBB:  wrote thm all there

SW: …

SW: was it

SW:  …

JBB: ?

SW: who

JBB: ??

SW: who ru writing your songs for?

JBB:  …

 

Bucky takes a deep breath.  Shit.   _Shit._  

In all of his fantasies about finishing the album, shooting the video, and becoming rich and famous, not once - _not once_ \- did he think about Sam calling him out for the content.  

He can dodge the question.  

Sliding his phone into his pocket, Bucky looks around his little studio apartment.  There’s a box of CDs in the corner, and another box of headshots next to it, with a couple of Sharpies thrown on top.  He’s doing a couple of local radio shows in the morning, and he’s meant to bring some giveaways with him.  Rosie sent over a slew of new clothes, telling him to keep what he wanted for the press tour, and he still needs to sort through and see if he’d be caught dead wearing any of it.  

The weight of his phone weighs heavy against his thigh.  He can all but feel Sam’s frustration with him.

Sitting down, he breathes deep and takes the phone out of his pocket.

He can lie, but he won’t.

He can ignore it.

Or…

Or he can tell the truth.  He can own it, like an adult.  He can try to be the man  - the man that deserves Sam Wilson instead of the man who only wants him.

.

JBB: been u 4 a lng time, Sam.

SW: …

SW:  I...Idk wht 2 sy

SW:  God, B.

SW: ...

SW: They’re beautiful

JBB: …

JBB:  Sam I

JBB:  I just

…

JBB:  thanks

JBB:  thank you, Sam

.

Sam reads the text and sets his phone down, then picks it up to read it again.

They’re all for him.  Bucky sat on Steve’s bed down the hall, and he wrote about kissing his secrets into Sam’s skin, and Sam almost missed it.  

He almost missed it, and his throat constricts because he doesn’t know if it would have been better to have missed it and not be missing Bucky now, or better to be missing Bucky now, but to have had him, even for a little while.

Sam’s supposed to go on a date at the end of the week.  A girl named Camille with light brown skin, thick black hair and a crooked eye tooth that Sam found adorable.  He ran into her (literally, oops) coming out of the deli and had to buy her a replacement sandwich for the one she’d dropped.  A five-minute transaction had turned into thirty minutes of flirting before Sam asked for her number.  

And now Sam’s got a date with a really pretty girl and he...he doesn’t want it.  

Pulling up the app store, Sam buys the album, settles his headphones and closes his eyes.  He knows he won’t be sleeping tonight.  

The song changes and the beat is quick, snappy but the words, oh, the words.  

_His eyes are saying no, no, no_

_And his mouth is saying go, go, go_

Was that how Bucky saw him?  Is that what Bucky thought he deserved?

And he wants - God, he wants to know.  He wants to ask _“what did you mean by this? What were you thinking?  How come you couldn’t see me until it was too late?”_

Sam’s heart breaks a little with each new lyric, each new note.

Bucky’d loved Sam.  Sam has - he can walk down to the actual record store and buy tangible proof that Bucky once loved him.

Does he now?

Does Sam even want to know?  

.

Xxx

.

JBB: nyc fnly thwing?

SW: Thawing? It’s downright warm.  You talk to Becs?

JBB: Sstr Stlr.  U kno bout her n sarah?

SW: Yeah, that was my bad.  Never should have introduced them.  Pretty sure they’re taking over the world.

SW:  Anyway, congratulations, Uncle-to-be.

JBB: <bashful emoji>

JBB:  Thx.  Wll try 2b thr for brth

…

SW:  That’d make her really happy.

.

Xxx

.

MamaB: James Buchanan Barnes, I raised you better than this.

JBB:  ???

MamaB: <angry emoji>

…

JBB:  WHAT DID YOU SAY TO MY MOTHER?

Stpd Sam:  ??

Stpd Sam:  That she has a beautiful home and two lovely children and she’s going to make the best grandma ever?  She’s a really good cook, too.  You’re lucky.

JBB: <suspicious emoji> I h8 u

.

Xxx

.

JBB:  I fkng ht trng

SW:  Training?  Dude. Exercise is a part of a normal, healthy lifestyle.

JBB:  TOURING.  I fucking hate TOURING.

SW:  IDK. <shrug emoji> You’re a rock superstar.

JBB:  stll me?

SW:  “it’s a fun job, but it’s still a job.”

…

JBB:  you get it.

SW: You are so sad.  Cypress Hill.  Google.

…

JBB:  fk u.  thot u wr wise

SW: you don’t know.

.

“Hi, Ma.”  Bucky answers his phone and feels his load lighten immediately.  “Everything’s okay?”

“Of course it is.  What, I can’t call my rock star child and ask him how he’s doing?”

Bucky smiles despite himself, despite how tired he is, despite the stress of the tour, and bone-deep weariness that seems to have permeated his bones.

He rolls his eyes at himself.   _Dramatic much?_

“I’m fine.  Everything’s going okay.”

“Oh, so you’re lying to your mother these days, is that it?”

“Ma, no.  I’m just tired is all.  I didn’t realize how much went into this.  People are counting on me for paychecks, and I don’t want to let them down.”

“Honey, no.  People are counting on the label for paychecks, and if this tour isn’t a huge success, it will be because they failed, not you.”

Bucky catches his mouth turning up into a grin.  When he’d gone into therapy as part of his recovery, Winnie had thrown herself into it as well.  Now he knows he can count on her for words of wisdom.  She boosts him up when he’s feeling down, and levels him out when he gets too high.

“I heard Sarah Wilson is helping throw a baby shower for Becca, is that right?”

“Oh, those Wilson kids.  I’m telling you, Jamie, I always liked Steven, and his taste in other people is one of my favorite things about him.  You know Sam came over last weekend for brunch?  He caught your father trying to mow the lawn and insisted on going out there and doing it himself.  He’s a good kid, Jamie.  I can see -”

Sighing, Bucky says “You can say it, Ma.”

“I can see why you liked him,” she says, her voice quiet like she knows how much it hurts him to hear.  “And Sarah, she is - well, she’s something, that’s for sure.  She said if Becca has a boy that she’ll have boxes of clothes for her.  Said either way her church will be glad to help out.  It’s nice for Becca, I think, to have someone who’s going through it a little bit ahead of her.”

“Yeah, Becs told me all about it.  She said she volunteered to work at their food pantry a couple of times a week.”  Waxed poetic about Sarah was more like it, and Bucky’s glad that they’ve hit it off so well, even if it does mean that Sam and Becca both have more ammo against him these days.  It’s a losing battle.  Bucky smiles, thinking of their teasing.

“Well, your sister has a good heart.  But don’t you ever tell her I said that.  You know she’ll use it against me.”

“Ma, I would never.”

“You’re really doing okay, Jamie?”

“I’m fine, Ma.  This isn’t what I thought it would be though, you know?”

“What did you think it would be?”

Bucky shrugs, even though Winnie can’t see him.  “I don’t know.  More glamorous?  I thought, you know, parties and movie premiers and meeting all kinds of rich and famous people.”

“And you’re not?  I have Instagram, you know.  I see all your pictures.”

“No, I am.  It’s just...it’s boring.  These people, they don’t care about me, and I sure don’t care about them.  I had part of a song in my head last week, and I lost it because I didn’t want to be rude to some jerk who was just talking at me.  It’s like...everyone here is just looking for their next audience.  I hate it.”

And there.  He said it out loud.  He hates touring.  He hates being in a different city every night, he hates meeting a million strangers, and he hates that his whole life is happening to him.  He hates how much he misses his mom, his sister.  Steve.  

Sam.

“I”m sorry,” she says.  “I know you’re unhappy.  Is there anything you can do right now that will make you smile?”

Shrugging again, Bucky says, “Catch me up on things at home.  How’s everyone doing?”

Winnie talks about his aunts and cousins, about his uncle Bobby and how he’s finally started a 12 step program for his drinking problem, but that it’s probably too late for his marriage.  She tells him about his cousin Jake, and how he’s excited to go to Cornell next semester, and that Lynda got a new job and will probably move.  “I mean, it’s Fishtown,” his Ma says, “but at least it’s not Jersey.”

At the end of the call, Bucky feels more content than he has in weeks.  Part of him still feels like his life is happening without him, but having his Ma talk him through is something he won’t take for granted.  

“You know,” she says, her voice soft.  “It’s okay to try something on and decide it’s not for you.  Remember when you used to want to be an astronaut?  All you could talk about was space this and space that, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“And then you flunked calculus twice and decided maybe you weren’t going to be an astronaut after all.  It’s okay to outgrow a dream, Jamie.  It’s part of growing up.”

Bucky’s quiet, thinking about his mother’s words.  It’s a lot to think about, but the fact is, he doesn’t think he’s ready to give this up.  Not yet. But it’s food for thought, he thinks.

“Thanks, Ma.  Love you.”

“Love you, too, honey.”

.

Xxx

.

SW: <hatchlings.img> Ugliest babies I’ve seen since you.

…

JBB: WHY do u h8 me?

MamaB: I can’t hear you when you’re speaking nonsense.

JBB:  You showed him my BABY pix?

MamaB: <evil emoji>

…

JBB: Prtty qt.  lk me.

SW: You wish.

.

Xxx

.

SW:  <twohatchlings.img> They kicked the other two eggs out the nest. <sad emoji>

JBB: I’m sorry, Sam.

…

JBB: wot u up 2?

SW: Working. You?

JBB: <bored emoji>

SW: Go bug Steve.

JBB: …

JBB:  I’m an asshole.

SW: ??

JBB: Nothing.

SW:  ??

JBB: go back to work

**_._ **

**_June_ **

.

JBB: Is Sam seeing anyone?

Rogers: Ask him.

JBB: <batting lashes emoji>

Rogers: Not talking bout ths w/you

JBB: <batting lashes emoji>

…

JBB:  I just…I think.  I don’t know.

Rogers:…

JBB: …

Rogers:  Girl named Camille but it didn’t work out.  Guy named named Chuck.

JBB:  UpChuck?

Rogers:  Xctly.

JBB:  And now?

Rogers:  Talk to Sam.

JBB: Okay.

JBB:  Just…I miss him.  I thought I was homesick, but

JBB: …

JBB:  No offense, pal.

Rogers: ??

JBB:  i.

JBB:  ithinkimsamsickinstead

Rogers:…

Rogers: shit.

JBB: ?

Rogers: …

Rogers:  I am NOt talking abt ths w/u. <crafty face emoji>

JBB: …

JBB: ??

Rogers:  I said NO. Stop asking. <crafty face emoji>

JBB: ever tell u ur my bst frnd?

Rogers: IDK wht ur talking bout.

.

Xxx

.

JBB:  Hi.

SW:  Hi.

…

JBB: Having lunch?

SW: <hamandswissonrye.img>

JBB:  Cool.

…

JBB: Still working?

SW: Heading home.  Longest week ever. Thank God it’s Friday. <praying hands>

JBB: <blushing face emoji>

SW:  ?? What is up with you today?

JBB:  Nothing.

…

JBB:  Miss you.

…

SW: …

JBB:  A lot, Sam.  I miss you a lot. I

…

JBB:  I know this isn’t fair and it’s not what we said, but

…

SW:  ??

JBB: I’ve been waiting, Sam.  I’m not asking you to wait, but I have been.  I haven’t been with anyone.

…

SW:  Not what you said in Feb.

JBB:  I lied.  And I’ll keep waiting.  You’re worth it.

JBB: I’m sorry.

SW: …

SW: Idk wt u wnt me 2 sy

JBB:  I don’t either.  I just… <shrug emoji>

SW:  You just got lonely and decided to see if I’m still pining after your ass?  That it?  Yank on my chain a little and see if I howl?

JBB:  NO!  No!  Sam.  I just.  Miss you.

…

JBB:  Will you answer your phone, please?

…

SW: Fuck you.

.

Xxx

.

Sam sets his phone down.  Picks it up, then sets it down again.  The next time he picks it up, he thinks about throwing it.

What?  

WHAT?

Waiting?  Bucky’s been waiting?  

Shit.  Sam’s been on a dozen dates and gotten his dick sucked in the time they’ve been apart.  Sam’s been _trying_ to move the fuck on.

Part of him - God - part of him is livid.  Who the hell does Barnes think he is, saying something like that?  What does he expect Sam to do now?  Is Sam supposed to be waiting, too?

And if so, for what, exactly?  Last time he checked, Bucky’s still living all the way across the country.

The worst part though, the worst part is that in the corner of his heart where Sam’’s been hiding his hope, in that corner, he’s happy.  Because if Bucky’s waiting, then doesn’t that mean he’s waiting for something?  Does he have a timeline?  Does that mean he’s coming home?

Sam tries to shut that thought down, tries to shut down the hope, but he can’t.  

He’s fucking - _Christ_ \- he’s excited.  Bucky might be coming home.  He might be coming home, and he’s been waiting for Sam.  

Waiting.

Fuck him.  

.

Xxx

.

Rogers:  <anger emoji> <crying emoji>

JBB:  I’m sorry.

Rogers:  NOT the 1 you nd 2 apologize 2.

JBB:  I’ve tried.

Rogers:  Nt hrd enuff.  Bucky.

JBB: IDK what to say to him.

Rogers: B honest.

JBB:  Hard.

Rogers:  <anger emoji>  did u thnk wuld be ez?

…

Unknown Number: Listen, Buckingham Palace, you made my friend grumpy and I’m not thrilled about that.  But you’re making Steve here pace.  On a rug that’s worth more than your entire career.  Fix it.

JBB:  Is this Tony?

JBB:  Was that Tony?

Rogers:  Yes.  Tony, be nice.

JBB:  Oh, I like him.

StarkNaked: …You’re not terrible.

Stark Naked: Fix it.

…

JBB: IDK what to do.  Should just leave him alone.

Rogers: U ever get tired of fkng urslf over?

JBB: <wounded emoji>

Rogers:  Good.  U say u lv hm but u wont fight 4 hm?  How u thnk that feels?

…

JBB:  I am such an asshole.

Rogers: Ur not, Buck.  But ur fkng ths up again.

Rogers:  Just…give him some space.  When u kno what u want, tell him and let him decide.

JBB:  love you.  Thank you.

.

**_July_ **

.

SW: <emptynestbox.img> They’re gone.

JBB:  <hug emoji> They’ll be back next year. Just leave the nest box.

…

SW: I don’t think they’re coming back.  I got

…

SW: I got attached

…

JBB:  Did you know they mate for life? Falcons?  They mate for life n they go back to the same nesting site, every year.  I promise.  They’ll be back.

SW: …

SW: <shrug emoji> maybe

.

Xxx

.

JBB:  Happy Birthday!  <celebrate emoji> <cake emoji> wot u 2 dng?

Rogers: <big grin emoji>  Having a party.  U sure u can’t come? Plllls??

JBB:  <frowny emoji> hv a show 2nite.  Wat even is ths plc?

Rogers:  srry man.  Hv a tst to you?

JBB: yah.  Lv u.  ms u.

.

Xxx

.

THEBeccinator: Cnt blv ur not cming home

THEBeccinator: m nt nming bb “bucky” or “james” or n e thng lk that

JBB: hv 2 wrk

THEBeccinator: Is it wrth it?

JBB: <brunomars.iwanttobeabillionaire.vid> <shrug emoji>

THEBeccinator: <heart emoji> <brother.sister emoji>

.

Xxx

.

THEBeccinator: ur sch an ASSHOLE

JBB: ???

THEBeccinator: luv u bro but comethefuckon

JBB: I kno, ok?  Fuck.

THEBeccinator: ur going 2 lose hm if u don’t figure it out.

THEBeccinator: sarah thx u still hv a shot tho

JBB: thx 4 that

THEBeccinator: <shrug emoji>  U <3 him?

JBB: yes.  Not…fuck.  

JBB: Not good enough.  For him.

THEBeccinator: shut the fuck up.  H8 when u h8 on u.

JBB: <scared emoji>

THEBeccinator: u nd to call dr lutz again

THEBeccinator: …

JBB: yeah.  Ok.

THEBeccinator: I love you.

JBB: u dn’t less than 3 me?

THEBeccinator:  <eyeroll emoji> <3

JBB:  <3 u too.

.

Xxx

.

SW: <saminshorts.img>

JBB: ws it gud prty?

SW:  Yeah.  You missed one hell of a show.  Tony set off fireworks that spelled out S+T in a big heart.  The food was ridiculous.

JBB:  Ridic gud?

SW:  I’m still full.

…

SW:  u wr mssd.

JBB:  Aww, u ms me?

SW:  I didn’t say me.  Still mad at you.

JBB:  I deserve it.  I’m sorry.

.

Xxx

.

JBB:  I didn’t

JBB:  I wasn’t

…

SW: ??

…

SW:  Do I need to call 911?

JBB:  I didn’t deserve you.  Then.

…

SW:  Do you now?

JBB: Probably not.

SW: …

.

Xxx

.

SW: What are you doing to fix that?

.

**_August_ **

.

SW:  You know what’s awesome?

JBB: ??

SW: motherfucking house in the Hamptons

SW: with in-house AI.

SW:  I told it to never, ever, play ‘Barnes.’  So far, so good. Bless Stark, and bless Steve, too.

JBB:  h8 u

SW:  u lv my fn ass

JB:…IDK, cn I c a pic?

SW: <sammirrorselfieass.img>

…

SW: ?  u ded ??

JBB: srry. Cldnt brth <heart eyes emoji>

SW: <smirking emoji>

JBB:  Can I call you later?

…

SW:  idk, cn u?

…

JBB:  Want to talk to you bout something.

SW: …

SW:  Jst say it.

JBB:  I’ve been seeing therapist again.

JBB:  <nervous emoji>

SW:  That’s great, B. Proud of you.

…

SW: free around 6 my time?

JBB: Talk to you then.

.

**_September_ **

**_._ **

Bucky hangs up the phone, then pulls it away from his face and smiles at it.  

Sam sounds good.  Sam sounds really good.  

Sam has a deep voice that tickles at Bucky’s inner ear, and if he closes his eyes, Bucky can remember exactly what that voice sounds like, moaning out Bucky’s name.

It goes up high when Bucky surprises a laugh out him, and low when he’s laughing at his own jokes.

Sometimes Bucky does close his eyes.  Sometimes he doesn’t pay exact attention to what Sam’s saying when he’s talking about a client at work, or Tony Stark’s latest foray into pissing Steve right the fuck off, or when he waxes poetic about Marta’s tamales.  Sometimes, Bucky lets himself surf on the sound of Sam’s voice, low and soft and soothing.  

Sam’s only caught him doing it twice, and each time, he’d given Bucky hell.

It’s worth it though.  Worth it to be the one that Sam talks to about his day.  Worth it to be the one to tell him it’ll be okay when he’s had a rough one, and worth it to be the one who gets to celebrate when something goes right.  Bucky likes being that person for Sam.  Being his first call, no matter what.  

He knows Sam misses Steve.  They talk about it sometimes, how it feels like everything shifted, all at once.  Even though Steve hasn’t officially moved out, Sam knows it’s right around the corner.  He spends all of his time with Tony at the tower anyway.  Bucky knows that Sam gets lonely, and he hates that he can’t physically be there for Sam.

He still hasn’t asked Sam for anything more than friendship, and they still save some of their more serious conversations for texts, but it’s a start.  

Bucky has some ideas about his future, and in every iteration, Sam is by his side.  Sam might not know it yet, but he’s the future that Bucky wants.  Still, he knows it might not happen.  He and Dr. Lutz have talked about this, about how it’s okay to want this for his future, but that it can’t be the only vision Bucky has for himself.  About how that’s a set-up for failure.  He’s working on it.  

He wants to be the kind of man that doesn’t just get Sam Wilson.  He wants to be the kind of man who _deserves_ him, whether he gets to have him or not.

.

Xxx

.

SW: <samwcoworkers.img>

SW: <samsakebomb.img>

SW: <samsingingkaraoke.vid>

JBB: Pls dnt evr sng agn

SW:  ???

JBB: ded cows snd bttr.

SW: <eyeroll emoji>

…                                                                                      

SW:  u evr cmng bk r wht?

…

JBB:  ??  I don’t speak gibberish.

JBB:  u r so wstd.  Wt grl wstd.

…

SW:  ur sch <eggplant emoji>

JBB: tks 1 2 no 1

SW: …

JBB: stunned u?

JBB:  my rapier wit knws no bnds

JBB:  ….

JBB:  u thr?

...

JBB:  … <worried emoji>

…

JBB:  jst let me kno ur ok?

…

JBB:  SAM???

SW:  IDK who this is but sam is busy puking up shit his grandma ate. We’ll get him home safe but he’s pretty done.

SW: <puking emoji>

…

SW:  hate vrythng

…

SW: pls kl me

,,,

JBB:  r u ded?

…

SW:  fuuuuuuuuu

…

SW: Did I really send you a video of me singing?

JBB:  yup.  Snt 2 evry1 alrdy  <biggrinemoji>

SW: I hate you.

JBB: Glad u hd gd bday <smiling emoji>

.

Xxx

.

SW: This is fucked up.

JB:  ??

…

SW:  A really nice, really beautiful woman asked me on a date today.

JBB:  …

JBB:  …

…

JBB:  Look, if I say go then I’m an asshole and not fighting for you and if I say don’t, then I’m an asshole who wants you to pine for me.  What do YOU want to do?

SW:  …

...

SW: Tell ur therapist he’s doing a gd job.

JBB:  Will do.

…

JBB:  And I don’t want to know what you decide.

.

**October:**

 

SW:  Steve moved out today.  It’s fucking weird in here now.

JBB:  U tkng hs rm?

SW:  Weirder, man.  That would make it weirder.

JBB:  <sadface emoji> I have to be on in five mins. Can I call you after?

SW:  Nah, don’t worry about it.  Have a good show.

JBB:  I’ll call you.

.

**_November_ **

.

JBB:  So.

SW:  ??

JBB: …

…

JBB:  Did you go on that date?

SW: …

SW: yeah.  I did.

JBB: …

JBB:  More than one?

SW:  yes

…

JBB:  ok

.

Xxx

.

JBB:  U still seeing her?

SW: Nah. She wanted 2 boo up 2 fst.  M’not thr yet.

JBB: …

JBB:  ok

…

JBB:  Yet?

SW: …

JBB:  u want that?

…

SW: <shrugemoji>

JBB: …

JBB:  can i call you?

…

SW:  No

JBB:  ok

JBB:  i want

JBB: …

SW: ??

JBB: Nothing I want right now is fair.

SW:  Welcome to my fucking world.

JBB: …

JBB: It’s

JBB:  I just

JBB: ...

SW:  Why you doing this now? U bn gone a year B.

…

JBB:  Afraid I’ll lose u Sam.

JBB: know ur not mine to lose

JBB: want you to be

SW: …

…

JBB:  It’s ok if you’ve given up on me. Us?  Hope u haven’t.

SW: ...

SW:  Come on, man.

…

SW: what ru asking me?

JBB: nothing right now

JBB: not fair

SW:  fuck u and this is?

JBB:  I’m sorry

SW: …

JBB:  no. I’m not sorry.  want

JBB:  I want you to wait for me Sam

JBB: want you to be mine

SW: …

SW: …

…

SW: u r such an asshole

JBB: yeah well this asshole is in love with you

.

SW: not making any promises

SW: not ok to ask

JBB: …

SW: no. so pissed at u rt now

.

Xxx

.

SW: <emptynestbox.img>

SW: heard they come back every year, but seems like they’ve been gone a while

JBB: …

JBB:  What if i promise theyll be back in spring?  Promise.

SW: <shrugemoji>

SW: Gonna be a long cold winter. Can’t be mad if they find somewhere else to stay warm.

JBB:  Fair

…

JBB:  friends tho pls?

SW: B.

SW: friends always

JBB: <3

SW: …

SW: I hate u

.

Xxx

.

JBB: Everything set?

Rogers:  4 the 10nth tme yes!!!

Rogers:  Happy will pck u up at airport bag clm

Rogers:  be nice even if hes not – Tony VRY attached 2 him

THEBeccinator: bttr nt b jrk 2 my bro!  will cut a btch! <angry face>

Rogers:  ??

THEBeccinator:  Srry.  Hormones. Pregnant.

JBB:  ??

THEBeccinator:  fk off both of u. fat n crnky n h8 erythng!!

JBB:  ooooooookay

JBB:  did u tlk to sarah?

THEBeccinator:  YES!  Fk ur annyng whn ur nrvs.

JBB:  Sorry!!!

…

JBB:  love you guys

THEBeccinator:  <3 u 2

…

JBB:  Thank you.  Both of you.  Thank Tony, too.

Rogers:  NP.  B good 2 hav u bk.  Mssd u.  a lot.

JBB:  hes for sure coming?  For sure?

Rogers: YES!  Omg like a little girl

THEBeccinator: he really, really is

JBB:  sorry!  <nervousemoji>

THEBeccinator: stp wrryng & dnt fk ths up.  <3 u

JBB:  I less than 3 u too.  At airport.  C u soon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left. (I'm gonna pretend that's not real.) Will post in about a week (so next Thurs/Friday). Somebody hold me?
> 
> Meanwhile...fic recs!
> 
> ['Cause I wanna keep you any way I can](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12160959/chapters/27598557) is a really cool Sam/Bucky fic that features some memory loss/deaging (but not to child levels or anything like that) AND has Enchantress, who I secretly love because of AvAc. 
> 
> and if you loooove Sam/Bucky, then you know no one does it better than notcaycepollard. [a couple rebel top gun pilots (flying with nowhere to be)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12232257) is four thousand percent perfect. I read it and then reread it again, instantly.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buf, you've been amazing, and I can't thank you enough. People, my beta is amazing, and I cannot thank her enough. This story wouldn't have happened without her. Huge thanks as well to Ty, who gave me some great advice. <3 <3 <3

_Peregrines generally mate for life, returning each year to the same area and even the same nest._ \- Falcons, A Life Cycle - https://www.pbs.org/falconer/falcons/lifecycle.htm

.

BB: wht u doing ths wknd?

SW: <shrug emoji>  going to see howlies with Steve.  Be weird without you.

BB:  aw, b hppy 4 thm? They r a grt bnd.

SW: yeah, just…not the same.

…

SW: what’re your plans?  Another show?

BB: endless tour is endless

SW:  Sorry man.  They ever gonna send u to nyc?

BB: aw, u miss me

SW: i didn’t say that

BB:  u dnt hv 2

SW: …

SW: I hate u

...

Sam sets his phone down and frowns at himself.  He’s been waiting on Bucky for so long now, he’s not sure he knows how to give up.  The conversation that they’d had a few weeks ago still weighs on Sam’s mind.  Bucky’d all but asked him to wait and Sam, Sam wants to.  Goddammit, he wants to.  

He’s no less in love with Bucky now than he was over a year ago when Bucky left.  If anything, it’s worse.  Before, they had a habit of falling into bed rather than talking about their feelings.  Now that that’s not an option, the two of them actually talk, and hey, what do you know?  Bucky’s amazing.  He’s smart and funny - clever and self-deprecating in a way that makes Sam want to tug him close while simultaneously needling him.  

Bucky notices everything, too.  He picks up on minor shifts in Sam’s mood like he’s scenting the wind.  Sam answered the phone one morning feeling particularly cranky and Bucky’d laughed at him.

“Let me guess,” Bucky’d said.  “Bergen’s was out of your blueberry bagels, so you had to settle for cinnamon raisin, right?”

“Oh, you think you’re cute, don’t you?”

“Oooh, and were they out of caramel syrup for your coffee, too?  Poor Sam!  You’ve had such a rough morning.”

“I hate you.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Bucky laughed, while Sam fumed at being so transparent.

Still, he loves their daily conversations.  They talk about everything from world events to what’s happening in each other’s lives.  They compare notes often when it comes to Steve, each of them warning the other when he goes on a tear about Tony, who seems to live for getting under Steve’s skin.

“He’s too proud,” Sam says, grateful that Bucky keeps the “You should talk,” to himself.  

“If someone wanted to pay off all my debt, I would be handing over account numbers faster than you can say boo,” Bucky says.

“You’re so full of shit,” Sam teases.  “Still, Steve’s slept over here last two nights.”

“Shit, really?  Should I call Tony, do you think?  He’s really bad at this, and I kind of like the guy.”

“Nah,” Sam says.  “Let them work it out.  ‘Sides, they need to figure out how to communicate if they’re going to stay together.”

Bucky’s quiet on the other end of the line.  Finally, he says “Yeah.  Yeah, they do.”

Sam clears his throat.  He knows they’re not talking about Tony and Steve anymore.  “Did you mean it?” Sam asks, before his nerves get the better of him.  “About the spring?”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky breathes, and Sam wants him here so badly.  He wants to see Bucky’s face and taste his breath when he talks to Sam like that.  “Sweetheart, I –“

Sam cuts him off with a cough.  “Nah, it’s okay,” he says.  He’s fucking terrified.  He’s never asked Bucky for anything, not a goddamned thing, and he’s fucking terrified.

“Hey,” Bucky says, his voice a little commanding, and oh, Sam likes that.  “I been halfway across the world this last year, Sam, and nothing I’ve seen even comes close to you.”

Oh.

Sam draws a sharp breath.  “Oh.”

The line is quiet after that, a silence that should be uncomfortable, but…isn’t.  Sam lets it spin out, resting in the comfort that Bucky is right there, right at the other end of the line.  He can’t see him or smell him or taste him, but Sam can hear him, hear his soft breathing, listen to his voice.

“Play me something?” he asks, and he knows it isn’t possible, but he’d swear he can hear Bucky’s smile.

A moment later, Sam hears the soft notes as Bucky’s fingers trip over the strings.  The melody is soft and light and easy, and Sam lets himself float on it.

“Hey,” Bucky says after a few minutes.  “You got unlimited minutes?”

“Yeah.  You?”

“Yeah,” Bucky answers, and then the line is filled with the soft, sweet music again.

It’s almost an hour later when Bucky gets back on the line to say he has to go.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Have fun at the show, okay?”

“Yeah,” he says.  “Sure.  Be good.”

“Always am.”

“Yeah,” Sam laughs. “You keep telling yourself that.”

Sam hangs up the phone and lets himself feel the soft ache that’s been hanging around his heart for the last year.  

.

The next morning Sam’s up early.  He has a date with Sarah and doesn’t want to be late.  He was up half the night before, in the kitchen, making his Mama’s macaroni salad. (“Easy on the green peppers, baby,” he could hear her say.  “That’s not what this is about.”)  When Sam cooks, he takes every opportunity to load in extra veggies. But this is Mama’s macaroni salad, not Sam’s, so he goes easy, adding just the half that the recipe calls for, before sprinkling the top with the paprika/sesame seed mix that makes it look just right.

He adds the macaroni salad to the baked ham and the thermos of lemonade already in his backpack.  Sarah’s bringing Daddy’s spice cake, along with the gardening tools and plates, cups and utensils.  

Sam breathes deep.  It’s been too long since he’s done this, he knows.  

When he gets to the gravesite in a rental car he’d picked up that morning, Sarah’s already there.  She spreads a blanket over the lawn beside their parent’s graves and is already at work tidying the grass around the headstones.  

The markers had costs a fortune, and Sam knew that the church had kicked in a fair amount of the price.  He’d sent what he could, but his military pay wasn’t much at the time, and he was grateful to the community for how they’d honored his folks.

“Hey big brother,” Sarah drawls when she notices him.

“Hey yourself,” he says, setting down his backpack and moving to help clean up the graves.

They work in a quiet silence, Sarah occasionally humming under her breath, Sam taking precious care in wiping away the water spots from the granite.  When they’re done, Sarah stows the cleaning tools away, then brings out the utensils.

“I hope you brought something to drink,” she says. They had a late autumn heat wave earlier in the week, and the unseasonably warm weather is finally dying out.  Sam grins and brings out the thermos of lemonade, still clinking with ice.

“My hero,” Sarah says, and the two of them sit down to eat, trading containers and loading their plates, talking about growing up, telling the same stories their folks told when they were young.  

“And remember auntie Jade, how she locked Leo out so that he’d get in trouble and have to stay behind?  Have you ever?”

Sam laughs around a mouthful of spice cake, feeling warm and good and whole, in so many ways.  “She’s still crazy,” he says.

“Oh, I know,” Sarah answers, laugher still pulling up the corners of her mouth.

“You know,” Sam says.  “Next year, little man’s going to be big enough to start coming with.”

“I know,” Sarah says.  “I brought him on Mama’s birthday, but he fussed and we ended up leaving early.

“John’s got ‘em today?”

“Yeah.  You know Jody put up a fuss when he heard I was coming to see you and he was gonna miss out? John had to promise him a trip to the park before he’d hush.”

Sam feels himself grinning wide.  “I’ll make a point of getting over to see you soon.  I promise.”  He’s surprised to find it’s an easy promise to make.  

Sarah smiles at that, and there’s an easy silence between them.  

His thoughts turning inward, Sam knows that at least his folks would be proud about this.  At least he’s rebuilding with Sarah.  He knows that would make them happy.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Sarah asks.

Shrugging, Sam gives her a crooked grin.  “Just thinking about Mama and Daddy.  Wish they’d gotten to meet your kids.”

Breathing deep, Sarah sighs.  “Me, too.  They’d be proud, I think.”

And yeah, they would.

Sam can’t help the turn of his thoughts.  There’s a lot they’d be proud of: Sarah’s strong marriage, the good man that John is, her two beautiful babies and her work with the church.  That she’s still active in the community - giving back.

“Hey,” Sarah says, and reaches over to hold Sam’s hand.  She gives it a squeeze, but he can’t make himself meet her eyes.

“Hey,” she says again, her voice stronger, demanding.  “You know they’d be proud of you, don’t you Sam?  Don’t you know that?”

He can’t help the tears that come.  He can’t.  They splash onto the blanket and in a moment, Sarah’s there, squeezing his hand and then tugging, pulling him close.

Sam buries his neck in her shoulder and she’s nothing like their mother -  not in build, not in voice, not in manner - but he feels comforted anyway.  She’s not his mother, but she is _family._

“Sorry,” he says, wiping away the tears with the back of his hand.  

“You got nothing to be sorry for,” she says, digging out a napkin from her bag.  

Sam cleans up his face, embarrassed at his display of emotion.  It’s not like him to be so open about his feelings, but here, in this space, he feels...he feels safe.

“You really are just like Mama, you know,” Sarah says, and Sam laughs.  Their Daddy always said “still waters run deep,” about their mother, who was free with her love, but kept her struggles to herself.

“I want you to listen to me,” she says, and Sam can all but hear their father coming out of her mouth.  “Mama and Daddy would be so proud of you.  You fought for your country, that was not an easy thing to do and I know you made sacrifices to do it.  You have a Master’s degree, Sam.  A _Master’s_ degree, and you use what you learned to help people. I can’t think of a better way to honor Daddy than that.”

Sam feels his face heat and looks away.  It’s true - he learned all of his values from his folks, and he’s tried to honor their memory by being a good man, the kind of man that they would be proud of.

“If anything,” Sarah says, and looks down.  “If anything, I’m the one who has something to be ashamed of.  I - the way I treated you.  I was wrong, Sam.  I was so wrong.”

“Sarah, you don’t - ” and Sam is so - he’s so touched.  

“Oh, I do.  It took me seeing you with Bucky before I even realized how wrong I was.  Love is love is love,” she says, and Sam is taken aback.

He raises an eyebrow at her.

“It’s something Becca says. You know I like that girl.”

Sam laughs, deep and full and relieved - he’s relieved, and he’s laughing like it’s the first time in a long time.  Maybe it is.

“Those Barnes kids are pretty irresistible,” Sam says.

“They are,” Sarah says, her voice going soft again.  “You still love him,” she says, and it’s not a question.

Sam shrugs.  

“He’s three thousand miles away.”  

“Not forever,” she says and Sam questions introducing Sarah and Becca all over again.

Sam tries to duck the conversation with a low “hmmm,” but Sarah isn’t having it.

“Look, I’m not trying to get all up in your business,” she says.  “But if you love him?  He should know that.  You deserve - you both deserve - to give it a real shot.”

Shrugging, Sam studies his hands.  “He said he wants me to wait for him.  That he’ll be back in the spring.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know, Sar,” he says, and brings himself to meet her eyes.  “Yeah, I still love him.  But say I wait for the spring and then he doesn’t come, or it doesn’t work out.  Or it does work out, but then he leaves again.  What then?  How much time am I supposed to waste waiting on him?”

“Is there someone else?  Someone here?”

Sam rolls his eyes, either at the situation or himself.  He’s not sure which.  “Yeah.  I mean, no.  I - I do okay, but lately, I’m not even interested.  It’s like I meet someone, and all I can do is compare them to him.  It’s - it’s infuriating.”

Sarah does smile at that.  “You know I can’t tell you anything.  I met John and I was done.  But I’ve seen you.  When you were a kid, with Riley, and then later with Steve.  I know what you look like when you’re crazy for someone.  And I wouldn’t even be here talking like this if I hadn’t seen him looking right back at you, like you’re holding the sun in the sky with every breath you take.”

It’s - Sam’s never had this.  Never been able to talk about who he wants like this, because who he’s wanted has never wanted him back.  It’s such foreign ground, and he feels so out of place.

The idea that Bucky is right there with him, that he misses Sam like Sam misses him - it’s terrifying.  The idea that Sam is wanted, maybe even loved.  

“You know,” Sarah says.  “You could try talking to him about things.”

Shrugging again, Sam says, “All seems pretty moot.  He’s there and I’m here.”

“Yeah,” Sarah says, looking off into the distance.  “Too bad there’s not some way for people to talk to each other when they’re far apart.  Like some kind of communication device where you could just punch in their name and hear their voice, or send them a message.”

The look she gives him is so deadpan that he can’t help but laugh, despite his irritation.  Sarah joins him and before long, it’s just like when they were kids, the two of them cracking up for no apparent reason, each one’s laughter egging on the other.

When their laughter dies down, the two of them look at each other, fond and with love, and Sam is glad all over again to have Sarah back in his life.

“Really though, Sam,” she says, her eyes matching the soft smile on her mouth.  “Talk to him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says.    
  
They chatter for a little bit longer before packing up and heading their separate ways.  

On the drive home, Sam thinks long and hard about what he wants, about Bucky, and about what a future with him might look like.  

As he changes to get ready for the Howlies’ show, he finds his resolve: He’s going to talk to Bucky, and soon.  He knows what he wants, and maybe for the first time in his life, he’s going to go after it.

.

The bar is packed and Sam’s a little bit surprised.  He’s not sure why - the Howlies have always drawn a crowd.  It catches him off guard, again and again, the way the world keeps going on despite the fact that it feels like he’s spending all his time standing right where Bucky left him.  

He’s not being fair and he knows it. It’s only...for the first time in a long time, he’s letting himself hope.  He’s ready to come clean with Bucky.  Ready to ask for what he wants, and ready to walk away if it’s not something Bucky can give him.  He feels precarious, but it’s the only place he wants to be.

He tries to picture a future with Bucky, tries to see what that might look like.  Will it always be long nights on the phone, just sharing digital space?  Will it be snatched weekends, the two of them flying half-way across the country just to do it all over again in a week or two?  

Sam’s still a homebody.  He still loves his work and he knows how much of his sense of self-worth is tied up in being the best he can be for his clients. He loves Steve’s little apartment and he loves his neighborhood.  Everything he needs is within walking distance or a short subway ride away.  

He can be okay, he thinks, being a partner to a working musician.  He got a taste of Bucky’s night-owl lifestyle and with some effort, Sam thinks he can find a way to make it work.  In fact, he knows he can.  If it’s Bucky that’s sliding into his bed at four in the morning, Sam knows he can be good.  He can be - he can be _happy_.

When Sam sidles up to the bar to order his drink, he’s surprised to see Nat behind the bar.  

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

She shrugs.  “Owner’s a friend, asked me to help out with the day-to-day stuff.  Old Fashioned, right?”

Sam gives her a curious look but nods.  He’s definitely going to have to ask Steve about this.  Last he heard, Nat was still the fiercest barista in SoHo, all but running the indie coffee shop that she’d worked at since he’s known her.  It makes sense - she knows everyone and everyone she knows seems to owe her some kind of favor.  She hands him his drink and - no lie - it’s probably the best Old Fashioned he’s ever had.  

Steve got them a table right at the front, so Sam gathers his drink and a bottle of the IPA that Steve favors and heads over to the table.

As the lights dim, he feels a shove to his left and looks over to see Becca Barnes.  He elbows her and she turns and smiles, but before he can say anything, the band takes the tiny stage and there’s no way to be heard.  Still he pokes her, then gestures toward her heavy belly with a questioning glance.  It’s not like Becca’s never come out to see a show before, but Bucky was always singing back then.  He never took her for much of a music fan, and he’s not sure why she’d come out, as pregnant as she is.

She smiles and pats her stomach, then gestures at Sam to watch the stage, where Wanda, Scott, Pietro and Clint are tuning up their instruments.  Sam looks around for the new singer, but gives up when the band launches into a bluesy cover of a Phish song, with Wanda’s vocals soaring sweet over the crowd.

The song is wistful enough to make Sam’s heart pang.  His lip curls into a soft smirk, amused at himself.  He might want to work himself over again and again, but his heart knows it’s a done deal.  He’s gonna wait for the spring.  He’s gonna wait even longer if he has to.  His heart’s made up his mind for him, and for once, he’s gonna let it.

“Thank you, everyone, for being here tonight,” Wanda says, her accent softly slurring her words.  “This is a very big night for us.  After a year of searching and searching and searching, we have finally found someone who can sing lead -” at this, the crowd cheers and Wanda cuts off, signaling for them to hush.  

“Yes, we are excited, too,” she says, and the crowd cheers again.  Sam’s never seen a Howlie’s crowd this rowdy.  He hadn’t realized their fan base was so big, or so vocal.

“As I was saying,” she continues, “we have finally found someone worthy of the Howlies name.”  The band starts up a new song.  It’s gentle and slow, the chords meandering.  Wanda steps back and picks up a mandolin, joining the melody before it finds its rhythm.  Once it does, Sam’s jaw drops.  

He knows the this song.

He _intimately_ knows this song.

Sam looks over and Becs and she has the biggest grin he’s ever seen on her face.  When he glances at Steve, he finds both Steve and Tony watching him.

Before he can open his mouth, the crowd roars and when Sam looks up, there he is: ducking his head and picking up an acoustic guitar, grinning like the devil, there stands Bucky Barnes.

“Hey, everyone,” he says, a sheepish grin on his face.  “It’s good to be home.”

And then he launches into “He Said Stay,” and Sam’s heart feels like it’s swelling, floating, flying.  Inside of his chest, it pounds, and when Bucky looks up, squinting against the stage lights, his eyes are searching, and then they find Sam.  He’s smiling around the words he’s singing, smiling so bright, and so beautiful, it almost hurts to look at him.

The song coasts to its end and Bucky smiles at the crowd, who cheers and cheers and cheers.  Beside Sam, Becca is on her feet, yelling and clapping, stomping her feet.  

When the crowd finally simmers down, Bucky adjusts the mike.  “Geez,” he says.  “Nothing like a hometown welcome.”

Of course, the crowd goes nuts all over again.

Biting his lip and blushing scarlet, Bucky motions for the crowd to quiet.  Sam watches him, drinking him in.  It’s one thing to talk to him every night and every day, but another to see him again, taking up space and close enough for Sam to touch.

Grinning, Bucky catches Sam’s eyes, holds them with his own, before breaking to set down the guitar.  

“Guys - sorry, I gotta -”

And then he’s climbing down off the stage and heading right for Sam, and then Sam is standing and Bucky’s in his arms and they’re holding each other tight, so close, and oh, God, why does he smell so good?

Bucky pulls back and looks at Sam, then kisses him hard, right on the mouth.  The crowd roars again, and Sam is certain that at least some of the wolf whistles he hears are coming from his own table.

“What are you doing here?” Sam asks.

“Couldn’t stay away.” Bucky says.  “I hated LA.”

Diving in for one more kiss, Bucky squeezes Sam’s hand and then heads back up to the stage.  

“So anyway,” he says, once he gets back up to the mike.  “LA fucking sucked.  Especially since I left all my inspiration here.”

He starts picking out a song and the band comes in behind him.  When Sam recognizes it he laughs and points at Bucky.  “You did not!” he yells.

Bucky nods and laughs before launching into the vocals, a rousing cover of “Son of a Preacher Man.”

Sam laughs and hangs his head, face filling with embarrassment.  Steve claps him on the back and he looks up, mesmerized by the man on the stage.  

“I hate you,” he mouths, and Bucky’s grin broadens.  

“Oh, the only boy who could ever reach me, was the son of a preacher man,” Bucky sings and Sam laughs and the music plays and the world spins and Sam realizes that everything is going to be alright.  Hell, better than.  With Bucky by his side, there’s no way they can lose.

 

.

**_Six months later..._ **

“You’re a bastard,” Sam says, groaning and closing his eyes.  

“I’ll tell my mother you said so,” Bucky says, sliding cold hands across Sam’s ribs. “Sweetheart,” Bucky breathes, then moves his mouth, warm and wet, across Sam’s jaw.

“Not fair,” Sam says, but rolls over and lets Bucky pull off his t-shirt, because twelve hour day tomorrow or not, Sam still can’t get enough of this man, especially when he comes in at four in the morning, high off a performance and craving Sam to bring him back down.

Keeping his eyes closed, Sam floats on that cusp of half asleep, half turned on, and lets Bucky put his mouth all over him.  By the time Bucky’s worked his way back up to Sam’s mouth, he’s laying on top of Sam and grinding into him, mouth hot and sweet and wet on Sam’s.

Sam gasps and tilts his head back.  “Don’t even think about fucking me.  I’m too tired for that shit.”

“You know we don’t gotta,” Bucky says, and makes to move away.

Sam catches his wrist and pulls him closer.

“Uht-uh,” Sam says, and grinds his hips up against Bucky’s.

Bucky reaches down and hitches Sam’s thigh up, spreading his legs wide and holding them open with his own.

It’s good.  Bucky pulls him out of his boxers and holds the two of them together, hand slick with who knows what.  

“Come on,” Sam says, finally opening his eyes.  Bucky is staring down at him, gray eyes bright, a cocky grin on his face.

“There you are,” Bucky says, before diving back in for a kiss.

Some nights Sam’s awake the moment Bucky’s key is in the lock.  Others, it takes Bucky coaxing him out of sleep, soft hands and warm mouth, before Sam is there with him, eager to have his lover in his arms.

The one time Bucky’d let him sleep, he woke up to a furious Sam.  Sam woke at dawn in a panic because he thought Bucky hadn’t come home.  When he’d found Bucky on the couch the resulting argument was loud enough to wake the neighbors.  

The resulting make up sex was equally loud.  

They’d had some bumps and bruises along the way.  While Bucky’d relocated shortly after that first night, he was still contractually obligated for a dozen more tour dates, which left Sam alone and missing his boyfriend most weekends.  It didn’t help that Sam worked long hours at the VA and wasn’t willing to half-ass his job just because Bucky was back in town.  

For the first couple of months, the pair felt like they were grabbing minutes here and there, still missing each other even though they saw each other most days.  At the end of the second month, during yet another argument about how making love over the phone wasn’t making love at all, Sam yelled something about Bucky moving in, and the two of them froze.

“Are you -”

“I think -”

They stared at each other, each willing the other to speak first.

Sam broke.  “I think I would take you more seriously if you lived here.”

Bucky eyed him, cautious.  “You don’t take me serious now?”

Sam just stared at him because really?  Really?  How serious was he supposed to take a guy who spends half his life in airports?  

Bucky huffed and shoved his hands in his pockets.  “I can’t with you right now.  This is - you’re - not now,” he said, shaking his head and walking to the front door.

Sam was _livid_.  “Really Barnes?  And you wonder why I don’t take you seriously?  The first sign of a commitment and you’re running for the door.  You know what?  Just go then.  But don’t even think about coming back.”

Sam didn’t wait for Bucky to leave.  He turned and went to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.  

After all this time - the months he’d spent waiting on Bucky, and Bucky wasn’t ready to give him any kind of a commitment?  Fuck that.  Sam was done waiting around.

Sam was pacing, working himself into a state, to the point where he didn’t hear the door to his room open.  It wasn’t until he spun, ready to pace back across the room that he saw Bucky there, leaning against the door frame, watching Sam with cautious eyes.

Sam froze, staring.  

“I’ve been in love with you for years, Sam.  When I didn’t know how to talk to you, when I thought you’d never love me back, when I was across the country or across town, or across the room from you.  If it takes me moving in here for you to finally feel that, then I’m in.  I’m all in here, Sam.”

It’s - every word Bucky said stripped away another piece of the anger that Sam’s been drawing around him, like armor, until he’s bare of everything.  He felt his heart beating, like it’s outside of his chest, bare and vulnerable and unprotected.

Walking toward Bucky, he bowed his head.  “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling the tears he didn’t want to shed gathering along his lashes.  “I’m sorry,” he said again, burying his head in the crook of Bucky’s neck, his fingers fisting into Bucky’s sweater, clinging, clinging.

Bucky held him close, pressing a kiss against Sam’s neck.  “Sweetheart,” he whispered, and Sam was lost.  

“I love you,” he said.  “It’s fucking terrifying.”

Chuckling, Bucky pulled Sam in closer, pressing against him from hip to shoulder.  “You’re telling me.”

Bucky’d moved in the next week, and while the road wasn’t perfectly smooth, it _was_ perfect.  Sam thought so anyway.

“I changed my mind,” Sam says, thrusting up into Bucky’s hand.  “Want you inside of me.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks, and Sam can feel him smirking.  “Get on your knees, baby,” Bucky says, his voice dropping an octave and making Sam shiver with the commanding tone.  

Sam rolls over and Bucky grabs the lube, slicking his cock before rutting between Sam’s cheeks.  

He grabs Sam’s cock with a slick hand and Sam fucks into his fist.  Bucky’s whispering filthy things into Sam’s ear, telling him all of his fantasies, the things he’s going to do to Sam, and Sam grips the sheets, pressing his hips back, wanting Bucky inside of him, knowing that neither of them is going to make it that far.

“Come on,” Sam moans.  “Come on, baby.” The tease of Bucky’s hard cock sliding against his ass is getting Sam all kinds of hot, and between that and Bucky’s voice, it feels like seconds before Sam is coming, his sharp cry pressed into the pillow.  He comes back to himself in time to hear Bucky say “Oh, Sam.  Oh, sweetheart,” and then Sam feels him spill on the small of Sam’s back.  

“Sweetheart,” Bucky says, pressing kisses against Sam’s skin, the back of his neck, his shoulders.  “Jesus, I love coming home to you.”

Sam’s almost asleep again by the time Bucky returns from the bathroom.  He makes it through Bucky wiping him down, through Bucky laying a towel down in the wet spot, and through Bucky snuggling up behind him, making Sam the small spoon, just the way they both like it.

“Love you,” he sighs, and the last thing he hears before sleep takes him is Bucky’s whispered “Love you, too.”

 

The next morning, Sam gets up to find that Bucky’s already packed a lunch for him, which takes his morning from ‘oh, fuck,’ to ‘it’s gonna be a good day,’ in mere seconds. Later that night, Sam will stop by the bar and bring Bucky dinner, the two of them hiding out in the back, stealing time before the evening rush.  

Bucky’d repaid his parents with most of the money he got from his contract, but with the balance, he’d put a down payment in on the bar.  It took about a year for it to build a reputation, but Bucky booked either a live act or a DJ in every night of the week.  Some nights it was smooth, easy jazz, some nights Ska or Reggae, and some night old school punk.  The Howlies played whenever they felt like it, and Bucky could have made the mortgage alone on the cover charge, but he kept the place free or cheap, making money hand over fist in volume.  He hosted album release parties, art showings (the art on the walls was always rotating, and always for sale), and video release parties. If it was in the creative realm, Bucky was open to finding a home for it in his bar.

Bucky usually stopped in once a day, just to make sure things were running right, but more and more, he was home when Sam got off work, and the two spent time cooking, talking or just watching television before heading into the bar for the night.  

Nat was more than capable of running things, but Bucky’d wanted the place to have a specific vibe - one that said good booze, good food, good music, and everything else good will follow.  Tony’d come on as a silent partner so that Bucky could make a few much-needed improvements, and since then, business had been booming.

They’re not perfect, the two of them.  Sam still hides in his mind and has to be reminded to use his words, and Bucky still needs reminding that Sam needs to hear that he’s loved as often as he’s shown it, but between the two, they’re doing alright.

It helps that they have Sarah and Becca to knock some sense into them when they need it.

When Sam comes up from the subway, a familiar cry brings him out of his head.  Looking up, he sees a falcon swoop, with another right on its tail.  They chase one another, circling, diving, crying out, before they fly so high that Sam loses sight of them.  Each winter, he keeps the nest box clean, filled with pebbles and protected from the elements, and each spring, his falcons come home to him, ready to bring another generation into the world, devoted to one another no matter how long the winter might seem.  

His heart swelling, he sends Bucky a good morning text, knowing that Bucky won’t see it until midday.  

Sam used to feel like his life was happening without him - like everyone was busy living while he was merely existing.  Now he looks around himself, and he wonders how he’d ever thought that way.  He and Sarah have never been closer.  Jody still adores him and Angela smiles at Bucky like he’s hung the moon.  Sam’s doing good work at the VA, work he can be proud of, and every night, the man who shares his bed, shares his life, is so beautiful, burning so bright with his love and his life and his _happiness_ , that Sam can’t help but ache with it a little.   

He spent so long with his shoulder to the wheel, that when he finally stood up and looked around, this gorgeous life had sprung up all around him.  His heart is so full that it should be heavy but it’s not.  It’s lighter than air, and he knows that no matter what comes down the pike, he can face it, and he can come out stronger, better.  Happier.

He’s happy.  

Everything else is just noise in the wind.

  
  
  
  
  


           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that's that. I don't know that I'm happy with this, so I might tinker with it some more, maybe do a few missing scenes (there's a lot of stuff that never made it into this fic). For now though, I'm marking my love letter to Sam Wilson complete. If I *do* decide to pull it and rework it, I'll wait until the revise is complete. I'm really unhappy with how whitewashed Sam is. I really wanted to look at some cultural things here that I just don't have the confidence to pull off, so I avoided them instead. I did my best. I'm sorry that I didn't quite hit the mark.
> 
> Next few things I post will be some OT3 'verse stuff, a harry potter/draco malfoy fic that I've been writing for the last two years (hahah oh my god I just realized it's actually been three), and a shrunkyclunks coffee shop au that may or may not be advent themed. Also, who's going to write that Lars and the Real Girl Stucky AU that I can't stop thinking about??? Seriously, it need to happen and I'll just keep reposting that tumblr post 'til it does. :D

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit is always welcome. 
> 
> I'm [chicklette on Tumblr.](https://chicklette.tumblr.com/)


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